The Painting and The Skulls
by Lunlar
Summary: Lyra and Will are 25 and whereas Will is having trouble forgetting, Lyra is having trouble remembering... as she travels back to Oxford to unravel her remarkable story, Will travels back to relive and remember the best time of his life.
1. Thomas the Painter

**The Painting**

**Chapter One - Forgotten**

Lyra Silvertongue looked out of the window uneasily, feeling something familiar yet again try and press into her mind, leaving her frustrated and baffled. Something was wrong-yet she couldn't place what it was. Her wandering mind focused on the view outside the window, the rather bleak city of London spread out in front of her like a map. Even though the sun was shining weakly through a cloud, it looked like a smoky, factory-filled rubbish dump. Suddenly feeling cold, she wrapped the paint-stained linen sheets more firmly about her and turned around to feel her heart turn in her chest as she saw the man lying on the bed, his eyes closed. Her heart always flipped when she saw him, and realized that he was all hers. Yet something gnawed at her brain, a heavy feeling. Her daemon felt it too, and jumped into her arms. She stroked his fur, admiring her lover. He was led on the bed rather awkwardly his arm thrown out beside him, on his side. He had black hair, and a broad face, yet strongly lined and handsome in a way that surprised her. His daemon Laisa, an effortlessly beautiful arctic fox, was led at his feet making small snorting noises Pantalaimon would tease her about afterwards. Lyra went to sit beside him and smile, watching him sleep. Pantalaimon slipped out of her arms onto the bed. He looked at the fox for a moment, and then poked the sleeping man gently. Her daemon gestured, a meaning that he was still asleep. She swept Pantalaimon off the covers, standing up. The man moved slightly, and she jumped. She pulled the flimsy material of the cover against her skin. His eyes opened and surveyed her gently, and Laisa opened her mouth in a yawn that showed all of her sharp teeth. Pantalaimon shifted in his arms, and she silently forgave him for waking him up.

"Lyra," the man muttered, getting up and looking around his room, then standing up totally and going round the bed to kiss her lightly. She put her arms around him and hugged him, and he squeezed her tight. She let go and he stepped back. "Anything wrong?" he inquired, running his stained hands through his ruffled black hair. Laisa and Pantalaimon were walking round each other and rubbing heads whenever they got close enough.

"No," she said firmly, stepping forward so he could kiss her again and comfort her. He wrapped her in his arms, kissed her hair and then suddenly let go. Surprised, she let him guide her over to the window, and stepped back to admire the early Oxford sun shining on her hair and shoulders. He stood back, a little critical. "There's something missing…" he said, and as soon as he said it, Pantalaimon had crawled up her legs and rested round her neck, purring or growling. When Thomas saw this he sighed gently, like he had just been relieved of a great burden. "Aahh" he said quietly, instructing her to stay where she was. She did so, and waited for him as he disappeared downstairs. His daemon followed him, padding down the stairs lightly and asking him questions, which he answered. They both laughed, and then they were gone for a few minutes. During the pause when they left, Pan whispered, "What was that we felt before?"

"I dunno," replied Lyra automatically. She checked herself. The time she had spent with the master of Jordan the last few days had made lasting effects. "I mean, I don't know. It felt like… like there was something important, and I couldn't remember. That's never happened before."

"Yeah, I know," Pan said, feeling something come back to him. "Hey, remember when that woman came up to us in the markets and asked us what we did after our journey?"

"Yeah, I remember. That was weird. She started asking me all this stuff about dead people. She was dead scary."

"She was mad," Pan said, almost correcting her. She smiled slightly out of the window.

"She was quite utterly _mad_," she said primly, trying to sound posh. Pan snorted. Both of them feeling a little better, they waited for Thomas. After a few moments they came back up, Thomas carrying an easel.

"What are you-"she started, fully aware she was only wearing a thin cotton sheet, with her bronze daemon hiding her neck.

"Ssshh, don't talk," he said, squirting out paints and then coming to stand next to her. She smelt his scent fresh and sharp, like the damp leaves that were always found in heaps under the crisp, dry ones. It was the paint, mostly. Thomas Lochard was an artist, seeing things and then painting them if they looked good on his canvas. He would sometimes be careless and make an obvious mistake, but otherwise, he was a very respected painter and his works quite famous.

He moved her so that she was looking out of the window, but her head inclined towards the easel with her daemon looking cosy round her neck, gazing out too. She was smiling slightly, and with her head cocked she looked like she was thinking about something which amused her. He told her firmly that the linen sheet added to the beauty, and she let him watch her and make the first sketches. When he had done the very first stages they both went downstairs, Laisa and Pantalaimon nudging each other behind and sat at the dining table. Lyra leaned over Thomas's chair, and he smelt her hair appreciatively, holding her arms in place round his neck, leaning back to look in her eyes. She smiled, yet feared that her expression would reflect the strange battle going on inside her, saying, 'This is not the man… there is another… you knew him once…' Confused and rather frustrated, she turned to Thomas again and asked him lightly, "What do you fancy for breakfast?"

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Neither of them was particularly domestic.

"Mm… I don't know," he said, stroking his stubby chin. "Do you know what omelette is? Some guy in a pub told my ma how to do it, and she taught me. He was a strange fellow, but his recipes sure are nice." He didn't notice Lyra's eyes widen as she tried to grasp something she couldn't quite reach, as her brain strained to remember….

"OK," she said after a while, finding her voice strangely high-pitched. Pantalaimon, who had stopped absent-mindedly watching the arctic fox and gazed at her with fear only she could recognize, shot her a look and turned to gracefully leap onto a chair, with Laisa watching him all the way. Lyra turned around to gather the ingredients.

"What? You really know what omelette is? How?" asked Thomas, chewing a hangnail.

"I… my mother taught me," Lyra lied, not knowing why she lied. Where had she learned to make omelette? Her mother… Lyra knew nothing of her mother. She had been brought up in Jordan College.

"Oh really? Well, get to work then," Thomas said, obviously not believing her.

Lyra decided to lie again. She didn't often lie to Thomas, but now she lied with all her heart, just like she had done… done when? She knew that there was something there in her brain that had been barred off, and she yearned to explore it…

"OK, OK, you got me, Mr. Recipe. Cook us an omelette. Go on. Do it. En't you supposed to be master cook?" she had switched to her childhood accent deliberately, knowing it annoyed him.

"Don't you get me annoyed first thing in the morning," he said, smiling as she stood up. She giggled but he muffled her mouth with a tea towel. She pushed it away and dodged his kisses, grinning slyly.

"Cook me an omelette or whatever you call them," she said stubbornly, "And then I'll kiss you."

"You're going to kill me, I swear…" he said, checking the pan she had already got out and wiping the edges to check for grease. He placed it on the oven and looked up at Lyra who was watching him tend to the fire with a little frown creasing his forehead. She didn't realize that she used to look like that, when reading the alethiometer. As he made the omelette, she fidgeted around him resting her chin on his shoulder to see what he was doing, sniffing his neck, teasing out little hairs that hung over the back of his head. At last he turned around with two plates in his hands, and set them down on the table. She followed him and sat down.

"Eat," he ordered, stabbing his omelette with his fork and eating a small piece.

Lyra did as she was told, a growing sense of unease washing around her. She tasted a strange texture and taste on her tongue even though she hadn't touched her omelette. It was fresh and sharp, savoury yet sweet at the same time. Then she tasted sweet, cold juice running down her throat.

"Marchpane…" muttered Lyra, the word slipping from nowhere before she could stop it.

"Mm?" Thomas looked up, his glance questioning. Pan lifted his head from the table where he had been watching Lyra, his eyes holding something Lyra couldn't follow. Laisa was watching Lyra with sharp, observant eyes.

"Nothing," Lyra said quickly, deflecting his attention and trying to look boring. It worked. He lost interest and attacked his omelette once again.

_These aren't cooked very well,_ she found herself thinking. _It__'s all rubbery. _How would she know how omelette tasted? Shaking her head to clear these thoughts, Lyra bent her head and speared her own omelette, trying to think of any foods that tasted sweet aswell as savoury…


	2. Detective Will Parry

**The Painting**

**Chapter Two - Detective Will Parry**

I didn't do a disclaimer last time; sorry about that, I completely forgot. Anyway, none of this is mine... unfortunately... it all belongs to Philip Pullman, and as he is taking a while to release his new book The Book of Dust (Grr) I have made up my own fanfic. I warn you beforehand - Lyra and Will don't get back into each other's worlds... I believe this will never happen. :) Enjoy :)

"You look tired," Lisa told the man, who had just yawned so hard something in his mouth made small clicking noises. He looked at her steadily, seemed to judge she was worth answering, and then replied, "That could be because I am." She didn't see his eyes shift to the top of his computer, to hover on something invisible to her.

"Mm. And why is that?" she continued, typing something into her computer and eyeing the results with some scepticism.

"Because… I stay up late," was all he offered her, before going off to find the coffee machine.

"Don't worry," said Irene, who often went around serving cups of tea just to gossip. She handed Lisa a coffee as the man turned the corner. "He's not normally social."

"I want a detective who I can have a joke with," Lisa frowned, before hurriedly getting out a mirror to check her hair, saying, "I suppose I can't judge him too soon, I've only just met him, after all. Besides, we're not supposed to talk to solve a case, are we? I mean, unnecessarily…"

"Oh yes, miss. Anyway, I've got to move on…" Irene bustled away. The 'miss' had affected Lisa a lot. She hated being single. Self-consciously checking her ginger bun in the mirror, she waited for him to come back. When at last he did, without a coffee, and sat down in the desk next to Lisa, she said, "So, how long have you been in the police force?"

Again, he studied her face before answering. For some reason, his eyes flickered on the floor beside her chair before replying, "not very long. Three years."

"Three years?"

He didn't answer her. Of course, he didn't need to, if she knew the answer. She noticed his fingers under the desk flexing. Was she annoying him? Clearing her throat, Lisa stayed silent for a moment. The flexing stopped, and his head shifted a fraction of an inch before returning once again to face the computer screen directly. Lisa, feeling strangely uneasy, cleared some files away. It was almost six. Drumming her fingers on the desk impatiently, Lisa wondered whether she should…

"Hey," she said leaning back over to the desk where 'Detective Will Parry' was working quietly, his face illuminated by the glare of the computer now the day was darkening. He looked up from typing. "Um…" she said, uncertain now the moment was here. "You want to go somewhere tomorrow? Together?"

"Well…" he said, not hesitating but pausing. Pausing to what? He dropped his head and stared at the piece of carpet underneath his desk. His eyes widened. Lisa wondered whether he was surprised that _she _was asking him, or whether it was the fact that he was being asked at all. At last, he said quietly, "I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Lisa sat back, smiling. When he turned around to answer someone who had called him name, she took in every detail thirstily. His black, messy hair, dark eyes, tight, square jaw and slightly creased clothes. And when he turned back round, his tired, bored expression, and when he looked at her staring at him, his eyebrows raising, his mouth remaining a straight line, his jaw line tightening as she looked at it. Suddenly aware that he wasn't going to break her gaze, she got up, grabbing her small black bag and looking back just once as she left the office. He wasn't looking at her; he was yawning again, and the screen in front of him flashing with yet another error message.

The next morning, the sun shined brightly out of Lisa's window as she walked about the flat in her bra and knickers, wondering what to wear. She had phoned the office pretty late the night before, hoping Detective Parry was there still, working at his computer. He picked up after a few seconds and she had made arrangements to meet at the park. The park was an attractive layout of gardens and pools, and, right in the middle, a gigantic art gallery. She intended to watch the ducks for a while, get to know his background a bit more, and then take him to the gallery, one of her favourite places, to see whether he shared her love of art. As she flounced around trying to find her pink flowery skirt, it occurred to her he might hate the countryside, but when she got there he seemed looser among the flowers and ducks, and although he didn't really contribute properly, at least he didn't just answer her questions in the simplest way possible. She even saw a glimmer of amusement in her face when she told how she fell in the large pond as a small child and was so delighted that she was at last swimming where she had longed to swim all her life that she played right in the middle and wouldn't let anyone fetch her out. In the end she got cold and went back of her own will, but it was one of her best memories. However, after spilling most of her life to him, she realized he hadn't said a word about his own. At last, as they walked along the gravel towards the gallery, she said, "So, you know most about my life, what about you?" she kept her tone deliberately light and easy, and looked around curiously to glimpse invisible birds. He was silent for a moment, and then said, "There isn't much to tell. My father was an explorer; he disappeared when I was young. My mother looked after me." He looked up at me, and his gaze told me not to ask anything else about his family. He didn't look angry or defensive, just mild and disinterested.

Instead we talked about work, about where he had worked before, what some of his cases were and then the same with her. The time passed like a blink – for Lisa at least, who found his conversation interesting and thoughtful, and often felt her once-strong views changing once he voiced them. But they both fell into comfortable silence when they reached the gallery. He paid for both of them, to Lisa's weak protest, and she took him to the smallest gallery, her favourite. No famous paintings were stored here, just small, colourful and cheery paintings of mostly animals, children, fruit, plants and a few odd landscapes. He looked at them all individually, occasionally going closer to read the little scripts underneath, which she never bothered to read, but found them fascinating when he read them out to her in his deep, strong voice. She flitted around him, explaining which each one meant to her, and he watched her with slight amusement with his heavy eyes. At last she finished with the last painting – a portrait of a young girl who the script told her was actually ugly but was painted beautiful. As they walked into the next gallery she talked quickly. "I really thought she was like that," she said earnestly, motioning to the gallery they had left behind, with the picture of the girl. "I used to want to be exactly like her – isn't that dull-blonde kind of colour in hair just beautiful? I really, really prefer it to _my _hair…" she pulled at one of her own locks, and looked at him to see the back of his head. She carried on talking, in case he felt uneasy. "And… well, those bouncy curls, they're just _so _pretty, I mean, I like my hair straight, it wouldn't suit me, that style-but she looks really cute like that. Ah, the biggest gallery is in here. I don't like many of the paintings in there…" they walked through the big oak doors, which had been pushed open and stayed there, the dust gathering on them. Lisa knew they never moved them, never closed them, and she felt secure, for some reason.

"Let's have a look around," Will said, running a hand through his unruly hair yet smiling at her. She smiled back and went after him, into the large, airy, white room.


	3. Bartley Stack

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Lyra commented as she took off her smart red jacket. "Do I really have to wear that thing?"

Thomas's smooth, amused voice drifted over the curtain. He had installed a small cubicle – or basically a corner with a curtain drawn across – for his many models for his paintings.

"You've worn it before," he was saying, and the sound of sloshing water reached her. Pantalaimon crouched at the top of the curtain, making sure not to venture too far from Lyra, avoiding making Thomas suspicious. They hadn't told Thomas of the gift – as far as Lyra remembered, they had both been born with it, but for some reason, she never had told him.

The sheet she was supposed to wrap around herself hung over the curtain. Pan sniffed at it as she undressed, then she grabbed it and tightened it around herself before opening the curtain. Pan nudged her feet as she walked to Thomas, who stood back to look at her then said, "Is that how you had it before? Exactly?"

"Oh, I don't _know,_" she said, letting him adjust it. Then he stood her in exactly the same position by the window, and Pan jumped up to her neck.

"Hang on," Thomas said to Pan, "Will you try winding yourself round her feet?"

Lyra felt Pan's slash of anger, for only a second, at having to be further away from Lyra. She stroked his red gold fur and then he flowed down, to wrap himself around her ankles. Then he looked out of the window too. Scrunching up his eyes, Thomas nodded and then moved his easel slightly, then mixed some paints before starting. His brush made sure, strong strokes as they made marks that would soon make a figure, a figure swathed in only a thin white sheet, with a flash of red at her feet that soon developed into a pine-marten, and the early morning sun that shined on her thin, beautiful face, and the glinting window…

"I don't see why you had to drag me here so early in the morning," Lyra muttered, the hand that was not visible in the picture fiddling with the sheet.

Thomas, his face rigid with concentration, said flatly, "The sun, the light…"

She understood and admired him as he worked at the painting, often frowning and swearing and cursing, often smiling satisfactorily, flourishing proudly, and examining critically. When he had done enough for that day, he wouldn't let her see it.

The next day, when they were both eating tea, a man came to the door. A visitor for Thomas. He was a large man, with a brown moustache yet blonde hair, which puzzled her. His daemon was a crow. Thomas introduced them. He was called Bartley Stack. Lyra quickly cleared the plates and half-listened as she washed up.

"So, have you started another of yer famous paintings?" the visitor asked. There was a clink of glasses. The whiskey was kept in the cabinet near the dining table.

"No, not really," answered Thomas. Lyra frowned. Maybe he was planning to keep it. Lyra stopped washing and tried her hands on a tea cloth, edging towards the door.

"It's a yes or no question, Thomas…"

There was a pause. Then the creaking of a chair.

"I don't want to sell it, Bart. I really think this is my best piece of work, and it's based on something that I actually care about. I normally paint models I don't know, but it's different… with Lyra."

Lyra tingled all over, a feeling that she had endured before. She wasn't thinking about the fact that she never remembered feeling it, though; she was listening to the conversation.

"You're drawing Lyra?" the surprise in the man's voice hid his sceptism. "I thought you gave up on the personal idea ages ago."

Thomas took a loud, deep breath Lyra could hear clearly. The words he said next made her feel good, well, more than that, and bad at the same time. She felt a deep guilt, or grievance, stir within her and she had to catch the sharp breath.

"Lyra's… Lyra's different."

A silence descended over the room, yet Lyra felt a battle raging within her. She felt deeply pleased at what Thomas had said, yet a horrible feeling also battled it.

She couldn't bear it. She turned to Pantalaimon, who was looking strangely at her. What was it in his eyes?

"Pan?" she whispered, feeling his emotions inside her. There was fear, realisation, guilt, remorse… and something else. "What is it?" she asked him, and he turned away from her. "Pan?" she said in horror. "Tell me…"

He shook his head and padded slowly away from her, up towards the stairs, towards Thomas's room. "Pan!" she hissed, and moved swiftly after him. He was mounting the stairs. Groaning inwardly, cursing him under her breath for keeping something from her, she went after him, making no sound on the steps as she did. She reached the landing and saw his red tail disappearing into Thomas's room. She followed her daemon in.

The room was illuminated with soft, afternoon light. Thomas's double bed lay in the middle of the room, the duvets on the floor. Pools of light gathered across the twisted material. Sunlight filtered from the massive windows onto the desk, coating it with dust, onto the light wooden floor, onto the easel. A large white blanket was draped over it so she couldn't see anything. On the middle window, the biggest one, which stretched from the ceiling to the floor and across for about three metres, was a window ledge padded with large blue cushions, and on this, her daemon was resting, his head facing out of the window.

"Pan?" she whispered. "Pan, why doesn't it hurt when you run away from me?"

She was walking forward slowly. Her daemon was completely still and quiet.

"Pan?" she said again, nearing him and stroking him softly. "Why can't I remember?"

"I don't know," Pantalaimon said. His voice was firm and she knew he was telling the truth. She had never known whether he was lying or not, not really. Well, since she could remember. Other people knew immediately when their daemons lied.

"Why are we different, Pan?"

Her daemon tossed his head and turned his clear, beautiful eyes to her, and she saw the brilliance in them. She reached out to stroke him, and he nuzzled her palm. The short feeling of being separate from her daemon and all alone in the world was gone. She sagged with relief as he jumped onto her shoulder. Faint voices echoed outside the door.

"Quickly," Pan warned, "Behind the bed. In the wardrobe!"

She changed her course to steer towards the wardrobe, opened it, shoved herself inside and then shut the door. Just as she did, the handle turned and the two men walked in, in conversation.

-"I don't want to sell it, I've told you. Stop bugging me."

"For God's sake, man!" said Bartley Stack, and through the crack in the door he saw the big man step in front of Thomas, who stiffened.

"You've got to sell it. This place - it ain't massive, sure, but it's modern, and on the top of a pleasant tower block… the rent's goin' up, and soon you won't be able to afford it, Tom."

Lyra realised with a shiver he was from Oxford. His accent told her that. He suited the place, she thought. She wondered if they were going back to the place where'd she'd been born.

"I'll do another," Thomas said carelessly, and they both stopped at the canvas. Thomas reached out a hand to pull the sheet off.

"You said yourself it's your best piece! If you don't sell it, Thomas, and sell it bloody soon at that, you're going to go…" his voice faded off. Lyra strained to see, but it was impossible. Even if the canvas _was _facing her, which it wasn't, the crack was too small to see the whole thing through.

After a few moment's silence, Lyra saw Bartley Stack step up to the painting and kneel down, then clear his throat. "This isn't really your style…" he murmured. "I thought you liked the idea of painting this season's fashions."

"She looked so beautiful, so art-like, unrealistic, wonderful… I had to paint her." Thomas said, standing next to the man and pointing out a part of the painting. His voice was soft. "I agree, I've used more colour than I normally do, but it makes her look younger. Vibrant. The light - see the way it shines on her face. She's looking in wonder. At the sun. At London. At anything. At everything."

Bartley stepped back and took in the picture. He cleared his throat again. "I think this will sell for a lot more than your normal paintings."

"How much more?" asked Thomas, sounding slightly interested.

"Well, I'm not a whiz at art, but… well, more than double…"

Thomas looked deeply surprised. "You sure?" he asked, looking back at the painting. _Lyra could never look that good… _she could hear him thinking. She turned away, to see Pan below her on the floor, looking fearful and puzzled at the same time, which she had never thought possible. To her surprise, he didn't answer her soft whisper of "Pan" so she knelt down next to him and stroked him reassuringly. "It's all right," she said, "They don't know we're here."

However, her daemon turned round to her, his eyes questioning, so she shut up. She poked him in an effort to make him tell her what was up with him. He turned his beautiful eyes to her and whispered, "Lyra, I just remembered something. We need to get to Oxford by tomorrow."


	4. The Special Occasion Door

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. My invisible friend thinks and wishes she does. _No I don't. _Only joking. :D It's all Philip Pullman's… and you know what? I'm glad! I don't write half as good as him! HA! Now… on with the story… keep on subject…

Note: This is the boring part. Please don't get bored by this chapter, it's probably going to be much less entertaining than the ones after. :D Happy reading

"I don't understand. I really don't. Just tell me why! Why the sudden rush?" Laisa's sharp eyes surveyed Lyra, who was throwing clothes out of Thomas's wardrobe into a battered leather case, and Pantalaimon, who was on top of the wardrobe.

"I… it's hard to explain," Lyra said breathlessly, jumping on the clothes to flatten them out. "I've told you. Pan… he remembered something."

"What, that you were born there? You already knew that."

"Yes, I _know,_" Lyra said impatiently, half-zipping the case and then spotting a pair of shoes on the opposite side of the room.

"Well… why then? Please just _tell _me, for God's sake!"

Lyra hated to lie to him. She took a breath to do so, hating herself for it, but suddenly had something that could have been a vision. It was only a flash, but it showed a smooth, round, golden object that looked like a compass, but bigger. The front was covered with glass and under the glass, there were pictures in a neat circle, and three long hands, pointing to different pictures. Then, next to the instrument, there was a ladder, and then the words _Do not lie to the scholar… _

"Lyra? Lyra? What's the matter?"

There were hands round her, shaking her, but everything felt strange, upside-down…

"I'm OK…" she found herself muttering, feeling the floor under her feet, still swaying slightly. Opening her eyes, she saw Thomas in front of her, holding her arms, his expression concerned.

"You sure?" asked Thomas, as she pulled out of his grip and walked over to the window. Seeing the busy London streets below her made Lyra feel something that could only be homesickness.

"Yes," she sighed, turning back around. She put her arms around Thomas, who gratefully nestled her hair. She drew back and said quietly, "I'm going to Oxford because… because Pan… he… we both have this _feeling_…"

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and Lyra felt Laisa's growl, somewhere near Thomas's feet.

"A feeling…" he repeated, his voice sceptical, almost mocking her. She didn't look at him, but turned away to start wrestling with the zip. This provoked Thomas to quickly stand in front of her and grab the hand which was on the zip. "Lyra," he said, quietly, but urgently, "I need you for the painting. If you're not going to tell me why you're going, and you don't really know, why not just stay? Mm?"

"I can't _stay_," Lyra said, forcing her own hand out of his grasp. "I can't. I need to… I've just had an urge, or something, and I need… no, Thomas, don't look like that, I _need _to go… look, you know I haven't told you much about my childhood?"

His eyes stared at her sullenly, but brightly. He nodded slightly, and Lyra noticed that for the first time, Laisa was in his arms. Lyra shook herself and carried on, "Well, I've told you all I know. And I want to know more. I don't want to die not knowing anything about my childhood-"

"But now? Why _now? _Why not go some other time? Why this sudden rush?"

"Because… because… I've built up the courage," Lyra said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Thomas, but I'm getting on that zeppelin whatever you choose to do."

"Of course," said Thomas coldly, turning around. Laisa slipped to the floor as the two of them headed towards the door. Then Thomas stopped and stooped to pick up the pair of shoes. "Just… just stay one last evening so I can finish the painting," he said, then when she nodded, her throat dry, he threw the shoes onto the bed.

Lisa suddenly felt horribly uneasy after she led Mr. Parry into the main gallery. One of the paintings had provoked a tightening of her stomach, or maybe it was the thick, horrible-buzzing-fly atmosphere that had settled on the place. Will felt it too, obviously, and looked around. None of the paintings looked that interesting, although he recognized one or two. There was a set of smaller doors, yet even grander-looking, since they were clean, and closed, and they caught his eye and he pointed to it.  
"What's in there?" he asked, walking towards it.

"Oh," said Lisa, her eyes glittering strangely. "Nothing. Well, if the doors are closed, that means it's not open. So, I guess there's nothing interesting in there."

"Or maybe something _really _interesting," murmured Will. He was still slowly walking towards the doors, as if pulled there by some unseen force.

"I don't… no, to be honest, this place isn't big enough for any really big paintings…" Lisa said quickly, hurrying up behind him. The sound of her shoes made Will feel frustrated, and he walked faster.

Next to the door was a little golden plaque, and it read, _This door is only opened on special occasions. Please do not attempt to access the enclosure as the antique behind may be fragile. All due regards, Mr. Greening, The Manager. _

"When is this open?" asked Will, standing directly in front of the door and looking it over fully. Lisa slowly came after him and said, "I don't know, it's never been open whilst I'm here. It must be really special occasions."

"I'll be back in a minute," said Will, "Stay here."

Lisa watched him hurry away, thinking he needed the toilet, and going over what his strange behaviour could mean in her head. But Will didn't go to the toilet. He was making his way to the door he had gone past and marked in his memory a few minutes ago, marked _Mr. Greening. Manager. Private, Do Not Enter. _When he got there he knocked on the door, cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"What is it please?" said a voice, and Will turned to where it had come from. On the left, a short, busy-looking woman was smiling through what looked like gritted teeth as her long, painted red fingernails drummed on the clipbourd she was clutching.

"I wanted the manager," Will said, frowning.

"He's busy, I'm sorry. Do you have an appointment? Can you please state your name? What company are you from? Please note that our paintings are not for sale." As she said all this, her black curls, pulled back into a high ponytail, bobbed around her head, making her look happy aswell as business-like, which Will found slightly amusing.

"I'm not from a company," Will said, "My name is Will Parry. I was merely going to ask an important question about art that I doubt you will know. I'm a painter, Miss, and I wanted to paint for this place, as I think it is suitable for my needs. And I need. To. See. The. Manager."

The woman looked flustered. Her fingernails stopped drumming, and she was completely still. Then, slowly, she raised her hand to tap her black-rimmed glasses down her nose.

"I've never heard of you," she said primly, "You must not be a very good painter."

"I wouldn't make assumptions," Will said, "I doubt you know much about art, if you don't know my name. Tell me, please, an interesting fact about art."

"Well… I…" blustered the woman. Then she regained her composure and said in a annoyed voice, "Well, you've got me there, Mr. Parry. I don't know much about art, but I know the painters. And you ain't even famous. Um, sorry, I meant, aren't."

"Can I see the manager, please? If I don't before the minute is over, I'll just go and give them to some other gallery!" Will said, pretending to be getting angry.

"Knock twice, then ring the bell three times," she said, in a rather bored voice. "That's the only thing he answers to, I'm afraid. If this were any other time, I wouldn't have let you through, you know, it's just, I'm so busy today…" and she walked off, round a corner, out of sight.

Will turned around, surprised that she had let him off, and then knocked twice on the door. Now… a bell… he searched the door, and found one quickly on the left-hand side. It was basically a white button, and it looked pretty unremarkable, and he would have missed it if it was not labelled in large, bold letters, BELL - PLEASE RING BUTTON ONCE FOR ASSISTANCE, ONLY IF URGENT. Raising his eyebrows at the statement, Will pushed it, once, twice, three times. He couldn't hear it ring, but it must've, because a second later the door was thrown open with such force it bounced off the wall behind, revealing a short, fat man of about forty or fifty, wearing corduroys and a tweed jacket. His hair ringed his head like a brown crown, fringed with grey hairs. He looked displeased.

"What is it?" he asked snappily, then squinted at Will, who hadn't moved. "Nancy? That's not you, is it? Oh, give me a minute."

A minute later he returned. He now had square glasses on, and he frowned when he saw Will. "What do _you _want?" he said rudely, adjusting the glasses.

"I want to speak with you. It's about the out of bounds area. I'm a… land surveyor, and I think that unless whatever behind that screen is absolutely incredible, this place is a waste of space."

This was a complete lie, but the man didn't see through it. He stopped frowning, smoothed down his jacket and then said contemptuously, "That is probably, sir, because you have no taste for art. The painting behind the doors is indeed absolutely incredible - if you come along next Thursday to the official opening I'm sure you'll agree."

There was a short silence, then Will said, "OK then, Mr Greening. What time…?"

"It doesn't _matter_, just come back Thursday. Any time."  
Will thought for a moment, then nodded, turned his back on the man and walked down the corridor, for the first time wondering why he had suddenly had the urge to go and ask about whatever was behind the doors. Whatever it was, he thought uneasily, he would know whether it was important that next Thursday.

A nagging feeling made him stop straight and think. He knew it was important. He had been thinking about it only that morning, and for some reason he knew that Thursday was a special day.

Exactly on the moment when he remembered, Lisa ran up behind him and shouted, "Boo!"

"Wha - Lyra - I mean… Lisa… hi."

Lisa frowned. He seemed suddenly distracted, so, to keep his attention on her, she grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him towards her.

"Ow!" She drew away from him suddenly, and bent down, rubbing her leg. She didn't his subdued, warning whisper of "Kirjava!", but when her hand came away it was dotted with blood.

"What…" Will cleared his throat and tried again, "What happened?"

"I don't _know_," she said, scrubbing at the small scratch. "It stings though."

She looked up, and Will looked shifty. As soon as he realised that he was looking at her, he turned away.

Feeling completely baffled, Lisa found a tissue in her pocket and dabbed at the scratch. As soon as it stopped bleeding, she replaced the tissue and leant back up, saying, "Well, shall we…" She stopped. Will had gone.


	5. Leaving

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Philip Pullman. The One and Only. The Main Man. The Top Tree. The Wonderful Writer. The Au… Au… Author. :D

Thanks KaiserMonkey for the fantabulous reviews, they've kept me going ;) and kind of made me feel a bit vain, so I won't let them go to my head… :D And to Klipa, who… well… will enjoy this chapter, hopefully, if she actually reads it. To goddessa39, HDM cracy, Lizzie93 and Phoebe, you all said on chapters 1 and 3 you liked it and then didn't come back! Wahhh! Anyway, if you are reading this, please review, and, if not, then Kaiser will be forever my faithful reviewer.  If she doesn't give the whole thing up, that is. Boy, would that be embarrassing. Well I'm gonna stop bugging you now and let you read in peace. Show me the money! (If anyone watched that film on E4 last night) Cyaz XxX

Ch. 5

The silence in the room was cold, and flat. Lyra felt de-inflated - like she had had a prize-winning idea and it had been squashed. The butterflies that she usually felt when Thomas painted her had disappeared, and had been filled with dread and anticipation, both at the same time.

"Let that strand of hair behind your ear fall," Thomas instructed loudly, breaking into her thoughts. Lyra hurriedly un-tucked a lock of her dirty-blonde hair and left it swinging slightly, closing her eyes partially against the sun's glare.

Thomas's strokes with the brush were becoming more precise and small, and he was gradually moving closer to the easel, his eyes screwed up in concentration. _He looks really ugly when he does that, _Lyra found herself thinking, and then hated herself for it.

"Erm… Tom… you're not mad at me, are you?"

"Don't call me Tom. No-one's ever called me Tom, you know that. Are you deliberately trying to irritate me?" he snapped, leaning closer to the painting and jabbing at the easel.

"No, I forgot. I think you're taking your bad mood out on me."

"It's because of you I _am _in a bad mood!" shouted Thomas, and then stopped painting. Lyra turned, and was surprised to find her eyes dry. Whenever Thomas shouted at her normally she cried, and then he felt bad and they made up, usually over a posh dinner. But this time he didn't come over and hug her, he stayed where he was. Then he dropped his paintbrush onto the desk and started to unclip the paper from the easel.

"It's finished," he said, rolling the paper up and hitching it under his arm. "I'm going to go and see Bartley, and then you can see it." His voice was cold and flat, just like the atmosphere in the room.

As soon as the door had shut, Lyra sagged, visibly and mentally, and collapsed onto a chair. Pan sat in her lap, his head resting on her thigh.

"I have to go," she whispered.

"I know," Pan soothed, "Of course we do. It's duty."

"No," she said suddenly, grabbing Pan roughly and standing up. "I mean go _now._" Pan barely had time to be surprised before she had put him back on the chair, lost the sheet, replaced the clothes she had had on before, clipped her hair back into it's usual messy ponytail and led Pan across the landing to her temporary room. She scooped up her three suitcases and slung a small red bag over her shoulder before launching herself downstairs.

"Write him a note," Pan instructed as she gathered some last bits. She thought about it, and realized it was a good idea, so she gathered some paper and hesitantly wrote a letter.

_Thomas, _

_Things have been a bit cold recently, and I realize that's my fault, and my sudden wish to go to Oxford. I tried to explain but I think you were a bit distracted, so find yourself something comfortable to sit on and read this: The reason I'm going back to Oxford is to find out about my childhood. My first stop is Jordan College, because I know that that's why I lived as a child. Do you realize that I don't know a thing about my childhood? Except from the fact I just gave you. I feel like there's something missing, don't ask what, even I don't know. So I guess I'll be gone for a while. Bye. Love you. _

She added the last bit as an afterthought, then folded it up and left it on the table.

"Mr. Parry."

Thoughts whirled round his mind, some taking him off guard. They were all about one person, and nothing else.

"Mr. Parry?"

When he had got up that morning, there had been something… something in the air. Something strange. Like there was a thin skin between him and the rest of the world. Like all the animals, all the beings in the world were waiting for something.

"Mr. _Parry._"

Alternatively, he might just have been going mad.

"Mr. Parry!"

"Wh- what?" Will's mind immediately switched back to the woman shaking his shoulder. She looked annoyed. "Glad you're awake and on the job, Mr. Parry," she commented smoothly, handing him a file. "Lisa isn't well today, so she isn't here. You'll have to work on your own. Is there something wrong, your attention seems to be a little of-center today?"

Will turned back from scanning the room and gave her his expressionless look. She immediately sighed, neatened the rest of the papers and walked away, with a small wave and "Good day, Mr. Parry," over her shoulder. Will sighed himself, and opened the file.

He quickly found that he wasn't taking in what his eyes were skimming over, so he motioned to the tea lady and said, "Can I have a coffee please. Strong. No sugar."

She handed him a black coffee straight off the tray and bustled away.

He sipped at it. It tasted like acid in his mouth. Wrinkling his nose, he put it down on the desk, and began putting some papers into a pile. He stored them out of the way, in the corner, and glanced at his watch.

It was almost time.

He stood up and took his coat off the back of the chair. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he picked up the coffee cup and drank all the liquid inside. Then he turned round, and started walking briskly towards the lift.


	6. Will

Hello everyone, I couldn't get into this chapter, that's why it's taken a while, but hopefully you'll like it…

Now, to reviews. KaiserMonkey, thanks again for the nice review. I checked out your favourite stories and started reading that '60 Ways to Annoy Snape'. It's so funny! He? You what? I never called you a he! Did I? Sorry… Also…Thank you Klipa! (For putting me on story alert) And for reviewing, of course. I am thinking about mega endings here so keep reading. :) katymoonbeam – you're sharp, aren't you? Thank you for your successful guess and the nice compliment – I can't see why you don't normally like HDM FF though – unless it's good. :D Rachel Nichols – I read for the same reasons. :) What were the capitalization errors? And to all of you who are reading this, please review, and come back to it when there's another chapter put up! I want to see how many I can get when the story ends – and I've never finished one of my stories before so it'll give me a kick up the backside whenever I get bored with it. Anony – keep reviewing! 

Disclaimer: Do we need to do these on all the stories? They're a tad boring, that's all… anyway, this is Philip Pullman's stuff here, not mine, all but the PRESENT plot is his. I did that bit. Oh, and the idea of Lyra's world being behind Will's world, that's his too. I hope I'm not giving too much away. :)

**Chapter 6 – Without Him… **

It was surprising how quickly Lyra had got to Oxford, what with falling asleep on the way there and rushing all the way to Jordan. But now she had dumped her bags, took off her high heels and was standing outside the grounds of her childhood home, leaning on the wall and watching the dolphin water feature spout water into a stone basin, her daemon curled around her neck, purring contentedly. The worry that seemed to almost take her over in Oxford had slowly been lifted away as the new Master – who told her that he was 'the old Master's son' - had greeted her warmly and told her she could stay for as long as she wanted. The sun shone down on her face as she watched a scholar hurry across the grounds. He looked around fifty, had grey streaks in his ruffled brown hair and was carrying a pile of papers. He had a large wolfhound daemon who was padding along beside him. As he walked briskly over the gravel, his foot caught and he stumbled, throwing out his arms to balance himself. The papers fell to the ground, and some blew away in the steady breeze.

Lyra ran forward to help him, going after the papers and pinning them on the ground before picking them up. Pan rescued a few that were slowly descending towards the clear liquid in the water feature. She picked up the rest of them and helped him fish out a few from the stone basin, his daemon pointing them out in an amused voice.

"Thank you, miss," he said humbly, holding up the dripping paper. "Thank you very much, I don't know what I would have done if they were lost. Indeed, these wet ones seem lost."

"Well, maybe not," she pointed out, smiling, and taking the wet paper from him. "Maybe I could ask the housekeeper to hang these up…?"

"Well, you could," he said dubiously, but Pan muttered, "The ink, Lyra…?"

"Of course," she said, realising, and scanning the sheet. "It's run, I'm so sorry."

"That's OK, it'll only take me… well, it won't take long to make another," he said quickly, "Could I ask you to throw that away when you have time?" he pointed to the ruined sheet.

"Of course," she repeated. He smiled.

"Thank you again for helping me," he said, "I'm sure not many would have come out into the sun from the shade as you did. Could I repay you in any way?"

Lyra thought about it, and then said quietly, "Have you been here for long?" The greyhound cocked her head questioningly, but the scholar replied eagerly, "Thirty-two of my fifty-five years, miss."

Pan, in Lyra's arms, jerked his head up, and the scholar looked at him, and a frown creased the scholar's forehead.

"Do you mind me asking why…?"

"No, no, not at all. But it's very complicated, Mr…"

"Ramsley." He supplied, then he pointed at the dog and said, "Prudence. Now, about…" looking very interested.

"And did you know a young girl named Lyra Silvertongue?"

"Now, now," he said quietly, "Strange you should say that." He put a hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, and cocked his head. "Why, you look a lot like her, Miss…?"

"Lyra," she said, smiling. "Lyra Silvertongue. And this is Pan."

"As I suspected," nodded the scholar, shaking her hand. "Pantalaimon. Beautiful name. May I ask why-"

"It's rather complicated, as I said. Was I… well-known in the college, would you say?"

"Well," he said, looking surprised. "You were extremely popular with the whole of the world at one point, Miss Silvertongue. But obviously, you know that?"

Lyra felt stunned. "The whole of the _world?_" she whispered. The scholar looked extremely confused. He glanced at his daemon, who wore no expression, but the man understood her. He spluttered;

"But Miss, you _did…_ well, Lyra Silvertongue did, anyway. Are you sure you're her?"

"Absolutely." Lyra said, "But I'm afraid I lost my memory, from when I was around fifteen. Completely gone. I must see the Master, please. He might know something…"

"Oh, I doubt it, Miss," said Mr. Ramsley, straightening up the corners of his papers. "But maybe the old master… he's ill, Miss Silvertongue, very ill. Ill, and old. Frail. You know."

"Is he… would it be possible to talk to him?" Lyra asked.

"Possibly," said the scholar, in a dubious voice. He started to turn away, as if afraid to talk about the subject, his daemon pacing behind him, not looking back.

"Wait!" cried Lyra. "Please! I need to know!"

"Ask the current master!" the scholar said over his shoulders, "Ask him! He'll know!"

"Now, Miss Silvertongue, how may I help you?"

Lyra felt quite awkward; the master was a middle-aged man, and didn't exactly mix with the friendly, laid-back atmosphere of the college. He was brisk, and although a kindly man, he was often seen as a little too proud. His daemon, Gita, was a black magpie. He was sat back, though, and watching Lyra with steel-grey eyes, his daemon perched on the back of his chair.

"Well…" she started, "I wanted to know… if I could see the former master."

A curious look passed over the man's face, and his daemon blinked. But he stayed silent.

"I understand," she carried on, her voice strengthening, "That he is ill, and weak. But this is very important, I assure you."

The grey eyes watched her, bored into her own, and then swept away, to scan his own room. "Of course," he said graciously, "Of course you may. But I must tell you, he… he's not as he was, Lyra. He's an old man. Things got a bit mixed up. I hate to say it… but, well, don't rely on what he says. Not fully. You can guarantee it happened, but maybe not in the way he describes. He's told many stories…"

"Stories?" Lyra asked curiously, Pan widening his eyes.

"Yes…" said the man, and suddenly he looked sad. He clasped his hands in his lap, and his daemon clicked her beak. "Lyra…" he said in a tight voice, "I can't tell you this. I'm not… it's not my place. You should… ask him."

Lyra stared at him. "You mean…" she said slowly. "You… _know?_" she remembered the scholar saying something about her being famous, and then said before he could reply, "And is there something about everyone knowing me?"

The Master paused, and stopped clasping his hands together, but his daemon lowered her head. "Yes, everyone knows you, Lyra. You… accomplished something incredible. But I don't know the details-"

"Take me to him," Lyra snapped, suddenly tired of his hinting. "I want to know. Now."

"Forgive me for keeping you here," said the man, getting up. His daemon flew to his shoulder, and he beckoned her before going out into the corridor and closing the door behind her. "If you'd follow me," he said, and marched up ahead of her, and Lyra could see his daemon whispering something to him. She was seething with curiosity, but managed not to rush the man as he led her through rich-looking corridors. At last he stopped at a door, and took a small collection of keys off his belt. He slipped one of the smaller ones into the lock and it opened with a click. Feeling suddenly nervous, Lyra hung back, but the man beckoned her again, so she moved forwards, and then went through the door. Behind her, the Master had nodded to her and closed the door, but she wasn't looking at him, she was staring at a four-poster bed at one end of the room. There was a bump under the covers but nothing could be seen. The room was dark, and covered with dark-brown panelling on the walls. The floor was wooden, stained wood, simple but beautiful. There were two dark red settees at one end of the room, seated on a dark brown and cream rug, next to a blazing fire, and at the other end, there was the poster bed. Shelves covered most of the remaining walls, covered with books, ornaments and other bits, and armchairs littered the floor. It was a wonderful room, slightly stuffy but extremely comfortable.

"Who is it?" the voice still held the authority a Master needed, and wasn't so old that it was cracked. It had also had weakened considerably, and seemed full of emotions.

Lyra couldn't move or speak. She seemed glued to the floor, and frozen.

"It's Lyra, sir," said Pantalaimon, who had been sitting on the floor next to her feet. There was an intake of breath and a whisper of, "Lyra…"

"Silvertongue," Lyra managed to say, taking a deep breath.

There was a pause, in which the fire crackled, and all the figures in the room were completely still. Then the voice said, "Take a seat. Drag a seat over. You'll be here a while."

Lyra went closer to the bed, swallowing her anxiety, and gripped the back of an armchair, before slowly dragging it across the wooden floor closer and closer to the bed. As she slowly came closer she saw an angular face, strong eyes and a lingering smile that made her draw closer, that she could easily reach out and touch him, but instead parked the chair and sat down in it.

"Make yourself comfortable, Lyra," he said, and moved his head slightly.

Lyra did so, placing the cushions so they didn't bother her, and leaning forward slightly. "Sir," she said quietly, "Where's your daemon?"

"In the covers next to me, comfortable," he answered, smiling. Lyra nodded.

"Well," he said, his eyes slowly examining her face. "You've become even more beautiful than I thought, Lyra."

She immediately blushed and shook her head, lost for what to say.

"Yes… you're currently with Thomas, the famous artist?" he said, and Lyra noticed his lips thinning, as if he were slightly annoyed.

"Yes," she replied, and, from nowhere, she heard herself saying, "It's not going too well, Master, I can't… we're not getting on any more."

"I… see," he said. He looked rather satisfied.

"Do you mind me asking why?" Lyra said, leaning forward, curious.

"Not at all," he said pleasantly. "Now, Lyra, I suspect you're here because…"

"A feeling," Lyra supplied, subconsciously copying the new Master's action of twisting and clasping his hands together.

"A… feeling. Well, that's very curious."

Lyra raised her eyebrows. She felt like he was humouring her.

The pause that followed was slightly uncomfortable, until Lyra said, "Sir, could you please tell me… everything?"

"Absolutely," said the former Master, rearranging his pillows. Lyra sat back, wondering what he was going to tell her. It must have been a boring life, she thought, living in this place. She found it lifeless and dull, but maybe it had highlights when she was a child. Dismissing these doubts, Lyra soon found herself listening hungrily as he started, with a deep sigh.

"Well, Lyra, I suppose I should start where it ended. That's the bit you _think _you want to know. Why, who, and when, you lost your memory. The trouble is, Lyra, you might take this the wrong way. You were always stubborn."

Lyra was about to interrupt, but the man started again. "Anyway," he said smoothly, ignoring her, "Let me tell you, Lyra, the reason why you and Thomas are growing apart is because you don't love him."

"Of course I love him!" Lyra burst out, "How would you know, you stupid old man?"

"Lyra, Lyra," he said slowly, "Calm down and let me give you a reason."

Huffing and muttering, Lyra sat back against the chair.

But she was thinking about what he had said. Did she really love him? Would she die for him? Die for _Thomas?_ Of course, she thought automatically.

"Lyra, Lyra… you can only fall in love once."

"I know," Lyra dismissed, not understanding what he was saying.

'_I love you,' she said, the corners of her mouth curling into a cheeky smile. His face almost fell – was he disappointed? But his normal expression was back, and he was smiling. 'I love you too, you know that', he said, but was he annoyed? And when he hugged her, did she not hear him sigh? _

The memory she had buried deep down suddenly disturbed her like a persistent fly – no matter how she swatted at it, it would leave her alone. Thomas… he was never enthusiastic, she knew that…

Suddenly she understood.

'_On Midsummer's Day. At midday. As long as I live…' _

"Do you remember, Lyra?" said the old man in the bed, getting up and leaning towards her, "Do you remember him?"

'_I'll be looking for you, every moment…' _

Lyra opened her eyes, and there was only one word she could possibly say at that moment. "Will," she whispered.

Note: This story might not make sense at parts, it might contradict another part – it's very difficult to write this story so please tell me if this happens and I'll try and correct it.


	7. The Botanical Bench

Hooloody doo… sooooooooo sorry for the masssiiivvee wait…

Disclaimer: I really need and answer to this, does this need to be on every chapter? Anyway, this isn't mine, my imagination isn't good enough :( It's all Philip Pullman's… well, most of it, anyway. The bad bits are mine. :)

**Chapter 7: **_(Wow! 7 already!) _**The Botanical Bench**

Will had bought a paper, but he couldn't settle down to read it. He kept taking deep breaths as he walked along the pavements, and repeatedly bumped into people, ignoring their angry mutters, wishing, and yearning, for a single thing.

_Please… _he desperately thought, _Let her be there… _

If she didn't come, he didn't know what he might do. Last year he had gone into a depression, aided by alcohol, and hadn't started living life properly until he was fired. The year before, he had tried to make himself busy, but there had always been that disappointment, misery, a sense of betrayal…

_She'll be there, _Kirjava said, without speaking. She was perched on his shoulder, heavy on his skin, and he could tell she was tense. _You know she'll be there. _

Swallowing, Will turned down the last street before he got to the Botanical Gardens. His legs were becoming weaker, as they always did, in nervousness, anticipation, and whatever other feelings were buried deep inside him, reserved for this one special day.

"Excuse me, do you want to buy some flowers…?"

Will glanced up; a grey-haired woman with armfuls of flowers was smiling questioningly at him. Black buckets spilling more flowers littered her feet.

"Er… no, thanks," he said, shaking his head.

"Oh, go on, buy a nice bunch," she urged, flourishing a few roses.

"I… no, thanks-"

"Yes, you know you want some," she said, her eyes gleaming. "Have a lovely fresh bundle of poppies, or tulips. Or both together… are you meeting your darling, maybe?"

Will was quiet.

"Ah, I see. Well, I'm sure she'd love a bunch of lilies – look, they have this beautiful ribbon wrapping, the ladies like this rose and germini wrap, they're simple but very pretty, aren't they?"

Will eyed the flowers, and then said, "No, I don't want any…"

"A secret lover?" she said mischievously, scooping another bunch out of one of the buckets near her feet. But something had caught Will's eye – a splash of dark crimson, and he reached down to pluck a single rose out of a bucket. "Here," he said, "I want this one."

The lady frowned. She took the rose from Will delicately, and then examined his face, running her hands over the rose's bumpy, thorned sides.

"Mourning," she said. "Dark crimson rose. Mourning. Here, have it." She handed it to him, thrust it into his arms, and was gone before he could give it her back.

"Keep it," Kirjava said, stepping down off his shoulder and walking ahead of him. He went after her, his hands sweaty round the rose, not feeling the sharp thorns of the stem that were digging into his hands. Something shot through his heart as he stopped in front of the iron fence. Kirjava had slipped through, and was waiting for him on the other side…

He always entered this way. This was the way they had entered… that time…

In one, swift movement, he had cleared the fence and was walking towards the fountain he dropped a pound coin in each time he went past. He stopped at the fountain, and pulled the pound coin he had put in there earlier out of his pocket. He held his hand high, and then dropped the coin. It sunk quickly into the water and hit the bottom of the basin with a clunk. Turning away, he walked towards the wide-spread tree, excitement building in his chest.

Lyra's breath came in sharp gasps as she almost tripped down the steps, and the entrance came into sight. She stopped for a breath, but Pantalaimon, beside her, moved on, running forwards swiftly. She went after him, eyes on the gate. Suddenly she hit something hard and solid and flew backwards, hard on her back.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry-"

The solid object had been a person, who was swaying on the spot. She had greying hair, and was partly obscured by the bunches of flowers in her hands. She seemed to be carrying several buckets too, and others were at her feet.

"I'm every so sorry," the woman gushed, extending a hand to help Lyra get to her feet. Momentarily dazed, Lyra grabbed the hand and was pulled up with surprising strength.

"I – I'm sorry too," Lyra said breathlessly, and made to move forward again. "I've got to-"

"Wait," said the woman. "I… have something for you." She looked strangely troubled. A frown crossed her features as she bent down to reach into one of the buckets.

"Here," she said, pressing something into Lyra's hands, as if scared to be seen, "Have it. Take it. Don't drop it."

Lyra stared down at the object, and there in her outstretched palm laid a dark crimson rose, the colour of blood. She looked up to thank the woman, say no, thank you, she didn't want a rose, but the lady had gone. Her buckets, the flowery fragrance, had completely disappeared.

_Will. Remember Will. _Pan reminded her, and although Lyra barely understood, she nodded and sprinted towards the iron fence.

_Serafina and Mary sat there, _Pan said to her, through her mind. He was looking at a stone bench. Instead of asking her daemon what he meant, she furrowed her brow as she walked, repeating the names Serafina and Mary over in her mind. _Serafina… Mary… Mary… Mary Malone… _

She almost bumped into a fountain. She stopped, and looked into the basin.

A coin, glinting in a strange way, caught her eye. She felt an emotion in her heart – an expectation, almost. Without thinking, she reached out to grab the coin, plunging her hand into the icy water. Her fumbling fingers grasped the coin and she pulled it out, examining it.

It was strangely small, and had engravings on it. On one side there was a face, and on the other, what seemed to be a tree. The sides had been imprinted on, but Lyra couldn't understand the language. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the bumps in the side of it. The same feeling that had almost swamped her a while ago at Thomas's flat before he drew her returned, stronger than before. Her memory flicked onto a picture of a strange device with a tray, and one or two of these gold coins inside. But Pan was ahead of her, heading towards a many-trunked pine tree, so she hurriedly followed him, slipping the coin into her pocket.

"Here," her daemon whispered. Lyra looked up. Pan had stopped, and was crouched in front of a plain brown bench, underneath the tree.

"She's here," whispered Kirjava, a strange look in her beautiful eyes. Will took a few moments to stare at the bench. He could feel Lyra's presence, he could almost sense the warmth of her body next to his, but he couldn't see her. More than anything else he wanted to see her. Well, he wanted to do more than that. He wanted to kiss her, to watch how the sun reflected on her hair, to stroke her hand and feel her nestling up to him. He wanted so many impossible things.

The birds were still singing, the grass and trees still making a quiet _whoosh_ing sound as the wind blew through them, but the volume seemed to have been turned around. All the time Will was intensely aware of the bench in front of him, so full of meaning that he found himself unable to sit on it.

He swore under his breath, and the sounds were turned up again, spoiling the moment. Kirjava paced behind the bench, restless and angry. Angry at him? Will neither knew nor really cared at that moment,

Will could see Lyra, but not her face, and she was different from how he remembered her. She was taller, more graceful, or looked so from her posture, from what Will could see from her back. She was, in short, a grown up. A bundle of fur that must have been Pan was cradled in her arms, red tufts just visible sticking out near her arms. She was standing in front of a window, looking out into the distance, and the morning sun must have been shining on her face. Will's insides ached, he wanted to see her face so much. But a noise behind her made him turn around, and there, asleep, lay a man. His eyes opened and he observed Lyra, who's face Will still couldn't see, then she turned around, and he shut them quick. She walked over to him, and Pan slipped out of her arms, onto the bed. She smiled, and the man moved. He seemed to be waking up. Lyra stood up as the man awoke properly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, yawning. His daemon, a snow fox, yawned.

"Lyra," said the man, and he hugged her, kissing her lightly. Will could see his face over her shoulder, and he looked bored.

And then Will was back on the bench, and he wanted to kill someone. His anger seemed to have unnerved the insects and the birds, which were no longer chirruping and rustling. He leant forward on the bench, his fists clenched, his head throbbing. He knew he had promised… but this was too much…

"It's because of you I _am _in a bad mood!" shouted Thomas, and then stopped painting. Will was surprised to find himself suddenly in an icy atmosphere. Lyra, standing in the position he had seen her in a moment before, looked slightly annoyed, and he couldn't see the other man's expression. But what he could see was a painting.

**This paragraph is very very different, I know that. Tell me if you don't like the style, and I'll change it. **

**La…**


	8. Lyra

Trying to avoid some more big waits, since I've lost a lot of reviewers doing that. :( Anyway, I want to thank Klipa, you are my favourite reviewer :D (v. v. much) and to apologise to Kaiser Monkey – I was naïve enough to think you were a girl. Sorry. Won't happen again.

Hmmm… not many reviews. 'Tis not good. Thanks Ellimere Ancelstierre for the review, I'm adding dividers because I finally realised what you were trying to tell me… yah, sorry, that was confusing.

Disclaimer: S'not mine. The storyline is. And that's about it. Will, Lyra, Pan, Kirjava, the bench, (all the artistic things) are all copied. AGGH!

**Chapter 8: Lyra**

The bench looked plain, with its dull wood and old-look, but Lyra knew in her heart that the bench was special. She went nearer, and Pan, beside her, crept forward cautiously.

There was a strange pressure in the air around the bench. It was almost warmth, like there was a temperature change in the air, but that was impossible. For a second Lyra could have sworn she heard deep breathing beside her, but when she swung around there was no-one there.

Something tingled in her feet. Someone was _here_. Not here, but… she couldn't name it, but she felt a presence. A powerful, strong presence. She reached out into the air beside her, but her hand met no resistance. Sighing, she turned back to the bench and said loudly, "Well, I may aswell sit down, Pan."

Her daemon was shock still, his eyes on the bench. Slowly, he seemed to come out of a trance, and he turned his head to Lyra.

"They're here," he said clearly, "She's here, at least. I know she's here."

Lyra frowned. "Pan?" she asked him, "Who's here?"

"She's here," he carried on whispering, and started pacing around. He slipped round the back of the bench, ran his nose along the side of the bench, arching his back against it like a cat. Like a cat…

Slowly, images were connecting themselves like a jigsaw in Lyra's head. She remembered a cat, its fur rippling with so many colours it made her head spin, a cat she felt so fond of…

Pan paced round the back of the bench, placing his paws carefully. Finally he lifted his head and scampered under the bench, back to Lyra's feet.

"They're here," he said, his voice fast and excitable. "Sit down. Quick. Before they go!"

Lyra had no choice, and she was intensely curious, so she went forward and touched the arm of the bench. Taking a deep breath, she turned, and sat down. Pan leapt into her waiting arms, curling up tight, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

It did, and very quickly. Lyra was suddenly somewhere else, not on the bench. She was in the gardens again, the gardens of Jordan. In the shadows. Scholars were hurrying past.

Lyra emerged out of the shadows, and walked over the grounds, ignoring the scholars, several of who were waving to her. She walked towards the College, a heavy weight in her hands, wrapped in black velvet.

The shade of the building was a relief from the heat outside. Lyra began to run, skipping a few stairs at a time, heading upwards, quickly. She reached the roof, throwing open the door and pulling herself up, glad to feel the warmth of the lead under her feet. Pantalaimon streaked ahead of her, rolling on the warm lead and then padding over to the very edge of the roof, tossing his small head and blinking at the enormous height.

Lyra slowly walked up behind him. Her muscles hurt, her mind span, her legs ached, like she was an old woman, on her deathbed.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she collapsed on the weak floor. Pan stood watching her, feeling her pain, helpless.

"Will," she choked. "I don't know what to do!"

Pantalaimon delicately placed his paws on her knees, which were crossed in front of her, and rubbed his face against her tears. He nudged the package in her hands.

She carefully unwrapped the object, pulling off the velvet gently and placing it beside her. She couldn't read the alethiometer properly yet, far from it. But she had found that when she was feeling an emotional powerfully, her reading improved. Staring into the instrument glittering in her hands, her mind formed a question: _will we ever be together again? _

The three needles spun, and she barely caught them. Her mind climbed down the ladders of meaning slowly, slipping on each step. She wasn't aware of time, but when she looked up, the sky was dark. She had decoded the message.

_Yes, _the alethiometer had told her. But, cruelly, as if it didn't want to give her false hope, it gave her something along the lines of, _death is a couple. _Of course, she knew what that meant. Depressed, she slumped back, her eyes glittering with the stars reflected in them. _I love you, Will. Forever. _

Then, sweeping up her daemon, she left the roof, and went to her room. Closing the door behind her, she went into the bathroom and hunted around her cupboard. Right at the back, her fingers scrabbled around a pair of scissors, which she clutched desperately. Sitting down on the cold, stone floor, she opened the scissors. They made a scraping noise as the blades separated.

"Lyra…" murmured Pan, climbing into her lap. He buried his head into her skirt, and she rocked him, crying.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "It's the only way…"

She remembered nothing more. Blackness surrounded her for a moment, then a voice was shouting, "Lyra! Lyra!"

"Come in!"

The master finished writing some notes and set them down as a man entered his office. He was tall and thin, with a thick black moustache and the slightest hint of a beard. His black eyes were piercing, drifting over the office without much interest then flicking to the master himself.

"Ah, Sullivan. Welcome to my office, and to the college."

"Sir." Sullivan bowed, sniffing haughtily afterwards.

"I trust you know… what is required," the master commented, leading the way out of his office. Sullivan followed, smoothing down his moustache.

"Yes, absolutely," the man replied, sounding offended.

The master hesitated before a large oak door, then let out a breath slowly and inserted a key into the lock. He twisted the doorknob beneath his fingers and pushed forward.

"_No! _I WON'T!"

"But, dear-"

"I see," Sullivan said loudly, over the noise. He sounded displeased. He walked over to the bed where Lyra was pushing away a maid, who looked desperate, the food on the tray she was holding slowly tilting to one side…

With a disgusting _splat_, the pie the maid was holding slid off the tray and landed on the floor. Lyra glimpsed Sullivan and sat up in her bed, giving the maid a push that forced her off-balance.

"What do _you _want?" Lyra spat at Sullivan as he approached. Her hair was wild and tangled around her head, her eyes were red with crying and her voice was cracked.

"I want peace," Sullivan said simply. "I want you to try and settle down. This will help you, Lyra. To forget. Just for a few minutes. Pure peace. See how it is before you say no. OK?"

Lyra took a great breath and let it out slowly. She gritted her teeth, and then laid back.

"First things first," Sullivan said briskly. "Stop crying. That's _not _going to help."

There were quiet snuffles. The master sat on a chair at the opposite side of the room. The maid let herself out.

"Secondly, close your eyes," Sullivan continued, walking silently towards the bed where Lyra was now lying peaceably. His dark eyes scanned her head, then ran down the length of her right arm.

"Hold your right arm up," he instructed. "Keep your eyes firmly shut."

Her right arm slowly levered itself off the bed. The cuff of her night sleeve fell back, revealing three or four cuts, congealed with blood. Making a disgusted face, Sullivan pushed the arm back down.

"Breath slowly through your nose, out your mouth. Easy now," Sullivan instructed, passing his hand over Lyra's face.

"Sleep," he then said. His voice sounded different, almost like a song. "Sleep, little one, child, forget all your problems and worries. Let thoughts fall away like a waterfall of doubts. _Will _your mind to slip, letting all the worries through."

Lyra saw swirling colours, and then an image of a waterfall. Slowly, she relaxed. Sullivan moved closer, reaching into his inner pocket, pulling out a corked bottle of black powder.

"Your eyes are the only thing keeping these worries at bay. Think, Lyra, of the feeling you're feeling at the moment. Isn't it wonderful? The weight has lifted off your chest. Relax."

Sullivan took out a brush from his outer pocket, running his fingers through the hairs, and then uncorking the bottle carefully and silently. His fluid voice carried on muttering through all this. Lyra breathed slowly.

Then he leant down, and brushed the top of Lyra's lips with the brush. The master saw a small amount of black powder across her lips for a moment, before Lyra took a breath, and the powder disappeared.

"Sleep, Lyra. Sleep, child. Sleep, slowly. Sleep, deeply. Sleep, relaxed. Sleep, smiling. Sleep, fully. Sleep. Sleep. _Forget._"

With a sudden movement, Sullivan scattered a handful of the powder across Lyra's whole body.

There was silence in the room, and Sullivan stepped back, replacing the cork back into the bottle. He slipped it into his pocket, rubbed his hands together, and then cracked his fingers.

The master knew what came next. He hurried to the bed, and examined the 15-year old girl lying asleep. Her lips were open partly, her eyes closed. She breathed heavily. The master waved a hand across her eyes, then, convinced, inserted a hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a handful of golden coins. Sullivan took them graciously, dropped them into his own pocket, then turned to leave.

"Wait," the master hissed. "What if it doesn't work?"

Sullivan was expressionless. His eyes bored into the master.

"It will work," he muttered, and then the door banged behind him.

The room that she woke up in was warm, lit by a fire, crackling in the grate. She blinked, pushing herself back against the warm pillows, savouring the heat of the bed. She stretched, yawned, and then tucked her hair behind her ears. She'd have to have a shower, her hair was greasy.

There was a creaking, and the door beside the fireplace opened. Instinctively, she pulled the duvet up to her chin.

A maid came through, mopping her brow as she entered the room. She bustled up to the bed in which she was in without looking up, but when she reached the bed her eyes met hers.

"Miss Lyra!" she exclaimed. "You're awake!"

At that moment, the door burst open and an elderly man came in. His eyebrows shot up into his hair when he saw Lyra. "Child!" he cried. "You're awake!"

"Two people have said that," she said pertly. "What do you mean by calling me 'Lyra'?"

The silence in the room was tense. For some reason the old man's face lit up. But then it fell again, to a frown.

"Dear, I mean to call you by your name," he said slowly. "Lyra. You fell. Don't you remember?"

_No. _No, she didn't remember _anything_.

Hardy har, that's the end of that. :D

Not really the _end _end. I mean the chapter. Of course.

:D


	9. The Master and the Museum

OK guys, you said it was confusing, so I'm going to kind of outline the plot for you. Sorry!

Will and Lyra are at the bench. Lyra is slowly remembering by this time, and when she sits down on the bench, it triggers something and she remembers _before _she lost her memory, which is the bit on the roof, and the scissors. Either this chapter or some other chapter will explain that in full, because the old master of Jordan soon gets what's coming to him ;)

Mainly, Lyra was so depressed about Will that the old master ordered a kind of hypnotist/apothecary to make her sleep, and forget everything. Is that what you're confused about?

The bit where Will saw Lyra seemed to have confused you too. Will was kind of getting a bit of Lyra's thoughts at that moment. I had to make his see the painting some way :D

Is that everything clear? If it's not, tell me, and I'll do something about it. Also, could you tell me how I could improve the last chapter I did so that it's not so confusing… thank ya!

:D Here you go... :D

O0o, a biscuit :D

**Chapter 9: The Master and the Museum**

At the same time, in different worlds, two people leapt up from a familiar bench. Will took a second to glance around the gardens, taking in everything.

"_Go_!" urged Kirjava, streaking ahead of him, the sun glittering on her coat. Will sprinted after her, tearing through the garden, realization dawning on him.

Lyra didn't tear away so quickly. She stood quietly, processing the strange information she'd just acquired. The pieces were started to come together like some macabre jigsaw puzzle of her childhood. The master had drugged her… _hired _someone to drug her because she seemed almost suicidal. She could understand that, somewhere deep down, but she was still angry. No, angry was the wrong word. Livid, infuriating, enraged, fuming, outraged and incensed were closer to the mark. Lyra ran then, as fast as she could, out of the gardens. As she ran, she felt tears welling in her eyes and thought, _I just want to be at home. In Thomas' arms. No! In Will's arms…_

She wasn't aware that she was still running, but suddenly, she felt arms round her shoulders, and she was leaning against someone, sobbing softly. She felt safe.

But the small flashback ended quickly, and Lyra stopped abruptly. _Where's my daemon? _She suddenly thought, swinging round.

"Pan?" she called. "Pan!"

The bushes behind her whistled slightly in the wind. Panic welled up inside her, and she cried out. "Pan?"

The feeling came back to her in a rush. Of losing her daemon, not knowing where he was. It was a physical hurt, like her chest had been sliced open.

"_Pan_!" she yelled urgently, and was surprised by the sudden claws on her shoulder. Pulling him off her shoulder, she hugged him fiercely. "Where did you _go_?" she hissed. "I had this weird feeling…"

"I had it too," he said, his pine-marten eyes narrowing. "I've felt it before."

"So have I…"

"Let's go and see the master," Pan said suddenly, squeezing out of her grip and landing pertly on the floor.

"What do you think I was doing?" Lyra snapped. "I had this flashback thing… someone was holding me. On a beach."

She hadn't noticed that detail at the time, but thinking back, she remembered waves, gently lapping up the sloped beach, and trees…

"Let's ask the master," insisted Pan, running ahead of her. "He has all the answers."

"Tell me!" Lyra burst in, ignoring the maid who was flapping at her, and glaring angrily at the old man on the bed.

"Leave us," the master addressed the maid sharply. He was sat up in bed, and looked more alive than their previous meeting. The maid meekly raised her eyebrows, if that was possible, then bowed at the master and gave Lyra a glare before slamming the door.

"You're a liar, you stupid old man!" Lyra yelled, rushing to the bed and pointing her finger at the master. The master simply raised his eyebrows.

"That's twice you've called me a stupid old man," he said calmly. "Please, learn to control your _fiery _temper."

"For an old man," she observed sharply, "You've got rather a _fantastic _memory."

"And…?" the master asked snappily.

"_And_," she mimicked, "You could maybe tell me now, _exactly _why everyone here knows me, why I keep having visions of being loved, why the hell I went and sat on a bench today because of some _feelings_, and why you have that _stupid _smile on your face?"

The master, who was grinning blatantly, wiped the smile off his face and tried to look sombre.

"Oh, Lyra," he said dramatically. "Sit down. I am going to tell you everything. And I'm going to enjoy it."

Will was panting heavily, but he didn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He couldn't make himself stop. He just carried on, heading in the direction of the art gallery. He veered left, into the park, running past startled ducks and a few dog-walkers, momentarily entertained by the fully-grown man apparently desperate to look at some pictures. Forcing the door open then leaning against the wall to regulate his heart rate, Will put his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. The face that had faded in his head years and years ago had returned. It had been a shock to know she was there, never mind see her again. Not really see her. See her back, and a picture of her. Shaking his head, he went up to the counter, leaning forward to catch someone's attention.

He saw the bell and pinged it three times in a row.

"Coming!" called a female voice, from the open door opposite the counter. After a moment a woman came out, a smart receptionist dressed in a brown blazer-like jacket and a brown skirt, and knee-high brown leather boots. "Do you want a ticket?"

"Yes, please," Will said, remembering his manners.

"That'll be two pounds fifty," she said, keying something into the till on the desk before her. It beeped, one of the trays underneath shot out, she took a ticket out and asked his name. He told her and she wrote it quickly with a pen, then exchanged it for the money Will had fished out of his pocket.

He turned to walk away but she called, "Do you want to see the extra painting opening today for public view? Apparently you're in for a nice surprise."

Will turned and nodded. She pulled out another ticket.

"How much…?" Will said quickly.

"Oh, just go, no pay. You're obviously in a hurry." She flashed him a quick smile and walked back through the door, whistling.

Will wasted no time. He turned and took the steps three at a time, hurling himself through the empty galleries until he reached the main gallery.

The doors were open, but he couldn't see much, just an ornate corridor. Another plaque had replaced the other one, this time saying, _Please feel welcome to come and see our new painting after you have purchased a ticket from the reception. _Feeling his excitement rise, Will walked toward it, but before he could enter, a guard stopped him.

"Oh, _what_?" Will snapped. He saw the guard's face and mumbled an apology.

"Ticket?" the guard rumbled, holding out his hand. Will gave him the red slip of paper, and went forward without confirmation.

He reached the door and slowly walked forward. The corridor was richly done; the walls magnolia and the floor wooden, except from a new red rug stretching from one to the other. At the other end there was a staircase going downwards, and he couldn't see beyond that. But he knew that whatever was behind was waiting for him, and him alone.

Yeah, quick ending there, sorry about that. My sister wants to come on, she's being a pain in the ass. Swears

Did you like my little Harry Potter bit? "Sit down. I'm going to tell you everything." I couldn't exactly include the Harry part. Jeeezzzuuusss, I'd better do another disclaimer now, for stealing Harry Potter. :s

S'not mine. :D


	10. The Painting

"I remember it well. I remember the colour of the walls – dark red – as I settled down for dinner. I remember looking at the roast beef, carrots, peas, gravy… and realising how alone I felt. I thought you were in your room, and you always had extraordinary stories to tell, plus I hadn't seen you for a while. So I beckoned a scholar and asked them to go and fetch you. After he left the room, I remember staring down at my dinner, making a face and taking off my napkin, standing up as I did so. I was wondering what was to become of you. Quick, bright, passionate Lyra – as you were, at 15 – and still are –" he rolled his eyes – "So I went to the window, and watched the children play, watched the sun quietly bathe us in sunshine, watched scholars hurry across the grounds, watched people hanging round the fountains, chatting, flirting, smiling, laughing. You hadn't done any of those things for a while. A while? I hadn't seen you smile or laugh for almost three years.

"I was so overcome, I had to sit down. A feeling welled in me – I don't know what – and I knew something awful had happened. At that moment the scholar came back in, and hurriedly begged me to come and follow him. I did so, asking him what was wrong, but he just panted as he mounted the stairs, forcing me to follow in silence, agonizingly heaving myself towards your bedroom.

"However, the scholar lead me past your bedroom, and towards the bathroom at the end. He pushed the door open, and I stepped inside. What I saw – it wrenched at my heart. Pantalaimon was quietly crying – whimpering – pushing himself against the bath with all his might. And you were unconscious, on the floor. Your clothes were dyed crimson, your eyes were shut, you were soaked in blood, and, when I knelt beside you, I found the scissors.

"You were incredibly lucky. To this day, I think something – or someone – cheated death, especially for you. When your cuts were bandaged, you were washed and laid on a bed, you looked almost normal – asleep – but when you woke up…"

The room was deathly quiet.

"When you woke up, you weren't happy. You wanted to be dead." The former master took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Lyra," he said, in a strange voice, looking up at her, "I contacted the best hypnotiser I could find, and he put you into a deep sleep that made you forget everything. It was a deeply protected and feared remedy, and was never used again, because it went wrong. It made you forget every emotion, instead of making you forget the past few years of your life. It was a hard decision, Lyra, and I regret it now. But you learnt your emotions again, fully. You're not as passionate, though."

At this point he allowed a small smile to penetrate his face, and he raised his head to look at her.

"However, there was one catch. You could never – never _ever _come into contact with anything in your past life again."

The master looked ashamed, and he lowered his head again. "I made the wrong choice, Lyra. I sent you to live in London. You knew your name, you knew your education. But you forgot the alethiometer, and everything that happened away from Jordan. I don't think you'll fully remember what happened to you, Lyra, until there comes a time… when you should.

"And now, I want you to have the freedom to remember. To try and help, you have a visitor. Then I'm going to take you on a tour around the places you visited when you were young. Just around Oxford. And I have some slides for you to look at, of a place called Svalbard, a painting of a place called Citagazze, some portraits of various people – and creatures –"

Lyra's heart leapt. A visitor? Pan, who she had momentarily forgotten about, jumped up into her arms, and they both burst out,

"Who? A visitor? Someone I knew?"

The master looked at her, and smiled, but he still seemed sad.

"Not Will, Lyra."

She had known it, really, but her heart still dropped. For no reason, she suddenly felt like crying. She buried her face in her daemon's fur.

"It's OK, Lyra. The visitor… he knows the most about you. From his father."

Lyra looked up and nodded, and the master observed her for a second. He smiled faintly, and sighed.

"Yes. Get me a maid, I need help getting up."

As Will descended the stone steps, his fingers slipped down the smooth wooden banister and his whole body felt heavy. The thick red carpet muted his loud footsteps, and Kirjava's behind him as she gracefully padded down.

He reached the bottom, and walked forward to the doors, about to open them. But as he did, he started to feel dizzy.

Closing his eyes, he saw yellow, yellow like butter or ripe lemons, and gold, deep, shining gold, blobs of light, like he had just been staring at the sun, backed by simple black. And when he opened his eyes, they disappeared.

But something made Will close his eyes again, and he tried to focus on the strange shapes. They seemed to become bigger before him, and then slowly, the blackness surrounding the shapes started to dissolve, and even though his eyes were closed, he was seeing the small area he was in. But it was from a different angle. He was looking at _himself_.

Unnerved by the strange picture, he hurriedly opened his eyes. His view rightened.

But he was curious. Was it a dream? A vision? He glanced at his daemon, who looked back at him with questioning eyes. But her eyes held something else. A thought crossed his mind – maybe it was about Lyra.

Hurriedly he shut his eyes. It took a moment to adjust to the strange view, and then he noticed something. The figure of Will was standing exactly where he was actually stood, his eyes shut, and there was a gorgeously-coloured cat sitting primly on the floor next to him.

The blobs were gold, and they were changing shape. They were splitting, then splitting again, and then again, over and over. And each time one split, once of the two glided over to Will, who had his eyes tightly shut, and clustered around man and daemon. After a matter of minutes he and Kirjava were barely recognizable, the cluster was so big. Dust. It was Dust. Both had seen this stuff before.

Will watched, and he was entranced. The golden sparkles attracted his full attention, until suddenly, the Will he was watching moved, and his daemon stood up.

His arm twitched, and he lunged forward. Hundreds of tiny sparkles wafted away, ignored him, and came back to cling back onto him.

_I willed myself to do that_. _That means I can go in there, watching myself. Is that right? _Will asked Kirjava silently. _Yes. Go in. _

The Will in front of him opened his eyes, and smiled satisfactorily. The feeling was strange. Will couldn't actually feel the air rushing past his arms, or his arms against his sides. But he could control them.

He took a moment to steady himself, and then willed to walk forward. The Will extended an arm and pushed the door open. Will didn't look inside; he was looking at the bit of the door he had touched. It was plagued by Dust.

The painting was straight in front of him when he and Kirjava walked in. Neither heard the doors close behind them, they didn't feel themselves slip back into their own bodies, they didn't see the white walls the painting was mounted upon, he didn't smell the fresh, sharp scent of fresh paint, or the slight aroma of saw dust. He just registered the figure in front of him, the figure he hadn't seen for countless years. The figure wrapped in a white sheet, stained by dirty marks of red, green, blue, yellow, brown, black, orange and countless other colours. She looked like she had just glanced at the painter. Her dark crimson lips were open slightly, revealing blackness, her eyes held a strange expression. Her dark blonde hair was straggly and wavy, parted neatly in the middle. One arm was cradling a beautiful bronze daemon, the other was in a strange position. It was by her side, and was barely seen, but the shape of her fingers was recognizable. The first two fingers after her little finger were laid down, and the other three were hanging limply. Her daemon was curled protectively in her arms, his arm resting on her arm, his eyes wide open. Light shone from the window which the two were facing.

"Sir! Ah, sir! You have come to see the painting, I see!"

Will didn't register the small man in a dark blue suit standing next to him, but the man ignored this fact.

"It is a very interesting piece. Perhaps the strangest, deepest part of this painting is the finger adjustment at the back. It's very shadowed, and barely recognizable. But can you see how the largest finger and wedding ring finger – it's on the left, you see – are folded down, and the two are hanging rather loosely? Well, the sign basically means 'I Love You' and it is very widely used today. But the strange thing is, here, is that sign language wasn't used in those days. At all. In fact, I'm not quite sure it was invented. I've heard – " at this point he lowered his voice, even though the small gallery was empty, "That apparently, the painting was put through the same… well… an informal name would be _Emotion Detector_, I suppose, but anyway… well, it was put on the same ED as the_ Mona Lisa_! I'm not sure what the results were. Bear in mind this was just a rumour, but… I heard that a large part was regret, some was anger, some was hate, and almost half was loss. There were others, obviously. But they're the ones I remember. Isn't she just beautiful? I _love _this painting, it's remarkable. The artist really captured everything needed in the painting. It's beautiful."

He finished, out of breath, and stared like a happy puppy at Will.

"It's almost…" he carried on, trying to avert Will's interest, "As if she's hiding something, and that the sign she's using is for someone very, _very _special... someone she _knows _will see this painting."


	11. Oxford and Summertown

Oh my, how bad is this fic? I thought it was good at the time but I guess I've improved since then. I really hope I HAVE got better.

Okay, so, it's been what, six months or something? I just totally lost interest and I'm really sorry about that. But yeah, I read HDM again like a few weeks ago annnd then found this and read it all through.

Hopefully my style hasn't changed too much. :)

We have this cat and the way it moves is really familiar to me so if you have no idea what I mean when I'm describing Kaisa then go and get a cat. And Pan too, look up pine martens and know what they look like before you read so it's more real. And that's an order. :p

**Chapter 11**

"You lived here for about eleven years. Jordan was your home, and you mixed with the children from the town and sometimes the gypsy children. You had a special friend – a kitchen friend from Jordan – do you remember his name?"

Lyra made a face out of the carriage window. She had no idea.

"It began with R," the old master intoned patiently.

"Roger!" she cried, and then immediately wondered where it came from. She felt a shot of excitement from Pan, who was curled round her feet.

She turned to stare at the master. The astonishment in her face made him laugh slightly, and then cough. "How… how did I know that? It's like I _know_, but I… I can't remember…"

"Well, that's exactly what it is. This here, Lyra, this is the only the start of your story. This is the making of you… well; some of these things featured in your big adventure, like the gypsies, for instance, but you mostly left Oxford behind as soon as you went to stay with… the woman who took you in."

"Who's that?"

"I'll show you when we get back. Are you finished with Oxford?"

"Yes, I think so. I recognize the boats; and I sort of remember something to do with the clay beds. I don't know, they're just childish memories. Jordan has a roof, am I right? And cellars?"

"Yes. Wine cellars, in fact. And a large surface area where roofing is concerned. John, take us back to Jordan, please."

As the carriage bucked over the cobbled floor of Oxford, Lyra once again felt like she was battling against her own good reason to come up with answers and memories that she could only half-remember; less than that, she remembered feelings, atmosphere or faces, never what actually happened.

"I think… I think me and… Roger… got drunk in those cellars."

Her struggle against the forces that had been placed upon her brain was making her feel delicate and broken, and her voice changed; became more high-pitched, as she said, "We found a bird and tried to nurse it back to health. Somebody said we should have cooked it. But we didn't. And… Roger… did he die?"

A feeling was pressing down upon her; guilt and sorrow, and she was sure it had something to do with Roger. Whoever he was.

There was a pause, and then the master said, "Yes, he was taken by the General Oblation Board. Who you called the gobblers; they took children, they were sort of like an urban legend." He suddenly sighed. "There's so much to tell, Lyra, there really is. Your story is a huge one; over time, people have come to realise that you made a huge sacrifice for worlds that would have perished. You were born great, Lyra. Your father is Lord Asriel."

"_What_?! The Lord Asriel who killed God? And waged a war against the Kingdom of Heaven, and made a bridge between two worlds, and fought God with his wife Marisa, and is still falling?"

"Yes, although some of those facts… well… they aren't true." He gave a deep sigh. "I learnt the truth from you, Lyra, and learned people… and an angel, who visited me once. Lord Asriel didn't kill God. He killed Metatron. Somebody else killed God; the Almighty, whatever he was called. And he… well… it's complicated. Mrs. Coulter wasn't his wife, although they did have a child together; that child is you. The Kingdom of Heaven; a collection of dictators and angels, witches, anything else that wanted power. I think that is all you need to know so far; I will tell you everything, but only in order, otherwise you will get confused; and a confused account of your own life is a very poor thing indeed."

Still reeling with shock from this new piece of information - that her mother and father were both heroes, and apparently so was she – Lyra swallowed back her questions and stared out of the window. As the carriage came to a stop, Pantalaimon leapt up into her lap and his warm body weight, balanced on four sturdy legs with claws that dug comfortably into her skin, calmed her seething mind and as she stroked his head and ears, his dark eyes stared into her. He knew something, and it was hurting him, but she didn't ask what it was, because she knew that when the time was right, he would tell her.

"Now, Lyra," said the master. "When we get inside I want to show you some slides of your mother, your father, some places you have been and other people you have met. And then I want _you _to fill in the gaps that my own memory has lost, the gaps that nobody else knows." He paused absently. "Well, maybe not all of it."

-----

"Sir. Sir? I'm afraid it's closing time. You're going to have to leave."

Will looked up, and stared at the apologetic face that had made the comment. It was the irritating man in the blue suit. He vaguely registered that he had probably been sat, surveying the painting and then looking down at the floor for more than a few hours; it was dark, and he had come in the early afternoon.

He got up off his chair and bent back to pick up his coat. He gave the painting one last look. The spotlights shining on the top of the painting made it stand out in the unlit room, and as he looked at it, he felt a swell of emotion that made him close his eyes. When he did, he immediately saw himself, standing and swaying slightly on the spot, the man in the blue suit watching him blandly. They were both surrounded by gold speckles of dancing light. He looked towards the painting. It was bathed in soft golden light; not as much as the figures. On the more colourful areas, like the wave of golden-brown hair, it was more abundant, and in the darker, shadowy areas, there were just odd speckles. Round the finger arrangement there was a riot of bright gold movement.

He willed himself to open his eyes and absently watched his own body murmur to the man in the blue suit and then make his way out of the door. He felt himself slowly slip back into it, and then Kaiser leapt into his arms as he walked down the corridor, back towards the reception.

As he passed, he saw the woman in the brown boots. She was working on a clipboard; she smiled as he passed, and he saw her meerkat daemon look up to survey him too. He nodded at Kaisa and Will realised, with a funny feeling, that this woman couldn't see her daemon. He immediately silently exchanged a thankfulness with Kaisa; a relief that _they _could see each other and weren't as alone as this woman. He didn't immediately realise that this was exactly what Lyra thought of him when she saw him, and he swallowed slightly to rid himself of the thought.

He made his way to the station, where he called a taxi that came within the hour; he climbed in, waited for Kaisa to judge the distance and then elegantly leap up onto the seat. As he reached over to slam the door, she placed herself on his lap and sat down, curling herself up as he said to the driver, "Summertown, please. Yes, just off main Oxford."

-----

I hope that's not really short, I can't remember whether it is or not. But I'm tired.


	12. The Retiring Room Memories

**Chapter 12**

Lyra did not recognize the room. It was large, and stately. The lights were subdued and the halos of flickering light from the large, thin candles equally placed down the long table danced across the silver goblets and cutlery. The chairs were large and heavy-looking, with deep coloured cushions and redwood backs. At the far end of the room, a smaller table stood, waiting with poppies and a small saucepan for the tradition which, although she didn't know it, still existed from her own time at Jordan. A solitary wardrobe stood away from the table, blending with the wood-panelled walls and matching the chairs. The master made his slow way over to this wardrobe, his daemon perched on his shoulder. As Lyra followed, she could see that Pan was jumpy; he padded over before her and began to sniff at the wardrobe before she reached it.

"You hid in this wardrobe many, many years ago. This room was and still is a men's room; you were powerfully curious and had to see for yourself what they actually _did _in here." He opened the wood door and peered inside. Lyra joined him and could just make out hangars of musty, furry cloaks and coats that smelt like they hadn't been worn for years. She withdrew her head and as the master closed the door, looked about the room once more. She walked forward to finger some cutlery, and found the uneasy feeling that she had felt in London returning. How did she know this place? Her memory caught sometimes like clothes on a bramble; she would stumble, but then it was gone, and although the memory of there _being _a memory there remained, the actual memory was locked away somewhere that she couldn't reach. Sighing, she surveyed the room once more.

"There was something odd that happened in here. Something… dark? Secretive?" she could sense two things; two feelings that she had once felt in this room… horror, or panic maybe, and something like a cross between disgust and powerful curiosity, or maybe just nosiness.

"It was whilst you hid in this wardrobe when you saw me attempt to poison your Uncle's Tokay. You, however, jumped out in time to knock the glass out of his hand when everybody except him left the room. He was here for an appeal," he explained, and, at her questioning look, said, "For money. He wanted us to fund an expedition North, something about a man called Grumman." He stopped and looked out of the window, which opened onto one of Jordan's many gardens.

"Grumman," Lyra repeated. "I know that name. Grumman… was he called John? John Grumman?"

"I don't think so," the master replied, giving her an odd look. Mystified, Lyra asked, "So what happened after I knocked the Tokay out of his hand?"

"He bid you go back to the wardrobe and keep quiet, and watch for anything suspicious. So you did. After the meal, he showed us the slides and – ah – 'evidence' – to convince us of his noble case in his attempt to return to the North. Among other things, he showed slides of the Northern Lights – the Aurora Borealis, The City in the Sky…?"

Lyra looked at him in wonderment. "The Northern Lights – The City in the Sky – Cittagazze – that's what Lord Asriel – my _father _– used to bridge a gap between the two worlds – was that the reason why…?"

"I believe so. Of course, he didn't tell us as much. Cittagazze?"

"Yes," Lyra replied quickly, wanting to get on to her next question – "But-"

"Lyra, my dear, how do you know of Cittagazze?"

The question stopped her for a minute and she glanced down at her daemon for assistance.

"That's the City in the Sky," replied Pantalaimon, "We went there, remember?"

The statement hit Lyra like a tidal wave; she drew in her breath sharply as she realised that her daemon was right, he was _right_, she had been in another world.

"Yes," she whispered, "yes, Pan, you're right – I – I've been there."

She swallowed back the thousand questions that immediately attempted to make their presence known.

"That's getting a little ahead. I only know this bit in detail, the rest is quite vague," stated the master. "The best is yet to come."

Lyra nodded. "Have you something to show me?"

"Yes, I have. Firstly, though, I should tell you a little more. At the presentation, you first saw the Northern Lights and you first heard of Dust."

"Dust as in…?"

"You know all about Dust, Lyra, you learnt about Dust for years and years. Tell me, what is Dust attracted to?"

"Humans," Pan immediately said. "Anything living. Anything conscious, anything touched by humans."

"Your daemon knows," the master said ruefully, "That means that somewhere, Lyra, so do you."

Pressing her lips together, Lyra listened as the master continued, "Lord Asriel showed us slides with a special emulsion. It showed one of the basic principles of Dust, or Rusakov particles; they are more thickly attracted to adult humans rather than children. Remember this, it is important later.

Now, onto the more important part. A few days later, a woman visited the College by the name of Mrs. Coulter. You did not know she was your mother, and it was the first time she'd seen you since you were born. She came right in and charmed you; you thought she was fantastic, and when she suggested you go and live with her, you immediately said yes. She offered to take you to the North. And so, the morning before you left, I asked you to see me and I gave you something."

Lyra watched in awe as the master unearthed a package from his pocket. It was the size of her hand-span and was wrapped in soft, black, velvet cloth. As the master dropped it into her waiting hands, she felt the warm weight of it and a familiar shot of excitement pounded through her. As she reached up to slip off the part of the cloth covering the object, she could hear her own blood pounding through her brain, and could feel a mixture of different feelings pouring out of the dam that had been holding back her memories. A pungent sleepiness and a soft hand combing her hair, a silent terror and an opening door, an onslaught of black shapes on sticks and a huge sweep of relief, a desperate voyage through snow and a struggling hope, a petrifying, sweeping silence and a huge, black chasm, a single sob of sorrow, a patch in the air and a never-ending nothingness that she was falling into, beside an angel and in the arms of a lord.

--

It had started to rain. The large splashes of deep cold burrowed into his shirt and wet his skin, and the wind blew feebly at him, but he stood, unmoving, staring down the row of trees that he knew to be hornbeams. The cars rushed down the road to his right, swishing and sloshing through the widespread puddles that gathered in the lower sides of the road, causing arcs of water to heighten and fall, back into the puddles and onto the pavement. He stood, hands in pockets, as the taxi drove away, and then a movement at the corner of his eye made him turn his head slightly.

It was a cat.

It was dark ginger, and quite large for a cat. It stepped delicately across the wet grass and, for a moment, stared up at Will. Then it swung its head back down and stared levelly at Kirjava for a moment. Mewing softly, it padded forward, and Will followed. It sat down at the spot where Will knew it would, and sat back, still watching Kirjava and blinking occasionally. Will stared at it, and then knelt down and rubbed his fingers against his thumb. Cocking its head, the cat paused and then glanced at Kirjava, who ignored it. The cat stalked over to Will and rubbed against his legs, and he was painfully reminded of the murder that he caused, all those years ago. Then his mind skipped over what had happened as a result, and he fervently resolved that he would do it again, just for what had happened to happen again. Sighing, he stepped forward and stared at the place where the window had been. He surveyed it for more just less than half an hour, and then turned towards the main town, reflecting that he had come here to do nothing more, which was true. Simply to know that this place was still here reassured him that he hadn't made her up. He hadn't made any of it up. And the proof, he thought, is right here, walking next to me.

He decided, then, that he was going to do something that he had promised himself never to do. He was going to go and see Mary.

**I know we all know what happened to Lyra and everything. But I just LOVE retelling the story so for now that's what you've got. :) **


	13. Alyssa Malone and the Mad Woman

**Chapter 13**

A podgy three-year old Alyssa answered the door. As the door swung open outwards, she kept hold of the door knob and stared into Will's face from her more modest height and said accusingly, "Wi'w Parry."

A mouse, small and invisible to Alyssa, peered at Kirjava, who stood imperiously at her masters heels, her tail lazily brushing his ankles. She acknowledged the small mouse and he stared at her.

"Hi, Alyssa. Is your mum there?"

She shook her head, causing her dark curls to bounce around her cheeks. "Dada."

"Your daddy's in? Well, where's your mum?"

Alyssa looked puzzled for a moment, then recognition showed on her face and she said, in her little voice, "Gone Sally."

"She's gone to work," Kirjava said. "With Sally."

Will repeated this question to Alyssa, whilst the mouse changed into small kitten, its eyes large, surprised and slightly scared.

"Yuh."

"Are you sure, Alyssa? It's important… where's your daddy?"

Alyssa stared at Will blankly for a second before shutting the door in his face. He heard her shuffle away, and then yell, "Dada! Bell!"

A quick, hurried sequence of footsteps, and then the door was swung open once more, and Mary's husband stood at the door. He saw Will and smiled. "Ah, Will. How are you?"

His daemon was a sleek wolf who surveyed Will with an amused craftiness.

"I'm fine. Do you know where Mary is?"

The same expression of slight puzzlement crossed the man's handsome face, the same as his daughter's.

"Mary? She's gone back to the lab for an hour or so, Sally came over and said there was something they'd left unfinished they shouldn't have. Or something. I haven't seen you in a while, Will, how are things getting along? Did you get that job – the police force, was it?"

Will nodded. "I got in; I've got my own office now. It's sort of urgent – where's Mary's lab again?"

"The big building near that old place that burned down – although it's being done up now. Up near Townley. She's on the top floor, she could be anywhere up there, although they're probably in the office part. I think she said something about paperwork. And I make a point of not knowing where that is. Here… she leaves her business cards around…" he turned and shuffled through some general debris on the desk that held the telephone, near the door, and eventually found a small, white card with the words 'Higher Matters – Research and Experimental Lab, founded by Malone & Chessler: Building 4C, Forlab Laboratories Site, Outer Townley.'.

Will returned his warm smile, thanked him and returned to the taxi he had caught in Summertown. He handed the driver a few pounds as he got in and promised him more if he took him to the address written on the card. The driver nodded and tapped it into his satellite navigation system. Will stared at it, aware of his poor grasp of any modern technology. A wave of tiredness forced him to lean back and sink into the black leather of the taxi; he had lived in the past for too many years. And suddenly, he realised with a shock that he had wasted the best years of his life. They had promised each other to try and live their lives; they'd be together in the end, there was no point in waiting until he died. Because even though they had more knowledge about the dead than anybody else in any world, they didn't know everything; there were so many unknowns. But it wasn't as easy as that; God knows he had tried… but how could anything compare to what he and Lyra had gone through? How could anybody even come close to her?

He felt saddened, as well, by the ignorance of the world he lived in. The little girl's daemon – indeed, everybody's, maybe, except from his and Mary's – were used to being ignored and lived completely unnoticed by the world. It was almost like they served no purpose – nobody acknowledged them, and throughout their lives, they were observers. Kirjava, on his knee, who had been regarding the passing view outside the window, turned her body lithely and settled herself into a lying position on the top of his legs. She glanced up at him and then rested her head lightly on her paws. The wave of understanding that passed through them could not exist if he never knew she was there. She had made the biggest decisions of his life and it was her and Pan who had discovered and explored everything. His mind wandered, over distant topics like war. Was there a possibility that if people in his world had not been able to see their daemons, would there have been no wars? Would humanity live in harmony? It didn't make much sense – people who started wars wouldn't have been stopped, surely? Stopped by a part of themselves? But then… people in Lyra's world could see their daemons… and they had been ruled by the _Authority_… how was that a world in harmony?

Both man and daemon were still as they travelled through into the outskirts of the city of Oxford. The taxi driver found himself humming slightly; his passenger sure wasn't a talkative one. But he couldn't help feeling, as he surveyed the man in the back seat, that he simply wasn't needed. This man wasn't uncomfortable with the silence; it was as if he was already talking to someone, a conversation that the taxi-driver couldn't, and wouldn't, hear.

--.-

It was raining outside. The rain was drumming hard on the windows, a rhythmic, soothing patter that splashed on roofs and windows. Lyra didn't open her eyes. She just listened dreamily, her heavy eyes refusing to open, even if she wanted them to.

"Miss? Miss Darlington?"

"Mmm," replied Lyra sleepily. She had always replied to both Silvertongue and Darlington. She never knew why; she had just known that she was really called Silvertongue, although every single person she knew called her Darlington. Thomas didn't even know she was called Silvertongue; randomers shouted it at her on the street.

"Miss, the – ah – previous master of Jordan is waiting to speak to you."

Lyra's eyes fluttered open and she blinked, puzzled, at the four-poster posts she could see above her head and the swathe of expensive material. The side hangings had been pinned back to the fine oak posts, revealing a richly-furnished bedroom with reddish wood panelling and a fire crackling in the grate. The rain dribbled drearily down the windowpanes, trickling brokenly to the outside windowsill and then dripping out of view. A young, nervous-looking maid was hesitating at the door.

"Is he here? Outside? Ask him to wait a second."

Her voice thick with sleep, Lyra sat up and stretched. She was wearing a long white nightgown.

"What… what happened?" was the only way Lyra could think to ask without sounding silly. "Come in, come in."

She beckoned and the maid came in, closing the door behind her and revealing a pile of Lyra's clothes – presumably from her suitcase. She put them down next to Lyra, who picked them up. They were folded immaculately, had been ironed and smelt slightly of lavender.

"Mister Greene was talking to you and you went all funny and one of the kitchen boys had to come in and carry you up, Miss. The doctor said you had a funny turn – nothing to worry about… a shock, mixed with tiredness, maybe… and a slight fever, that's all, it ent nothing, Miss…"

Feeling faintly ashamed of herself for fainting, Lyra nodded slowly. "So there aren't any lasting effects?"

"Nome."

"How long…?"

"The night, Miss. You had to sleep off the fever, Doctor Lambert said that was stress."

Stress… they had no idea.

"Thank-you. I will dress now, and see the Master… what time is it?" Lyra asked, feeling slightly disorientated.

"Ten in the morning, Miss. Would you like to take breakfast with the Master?"

"Yes, please, tell him so. And also request it be in the Retiring Room. I have some unfinished remembering to do there. I will be in there in about half an hour."

The maid stared. "The Retiring Room, Miss? Are you aware-"

"Yes, I know. Men only. Well, I don't care. I went in there yesterday and I'm going in today. What's your name?"

The maid blushed. "Sorry if I was being forward, Miss. Uh – Marsha."

"You weren't being forward, Marsha. Please go and inform the Master."

The maid bowed slightly, and retreated. This woman was very odd, there was no doubt about it. But there was a sort of… a sort of regal, mixed grace about her – she was elegant, yet she had the slight accent and manner of something less… and she had a lively, righteous atmosphere about her that fitted her, and yet, it can't have always fitted her. Marsha found herself liking her, and she knew, somehow, that she was originally from Oxford.

She had no idea who Lyra was. Lyra was a legend, of course, but only under the name Silvertongue, which nobody knew she was also called. And her grown-up appearance was elusive; Lyra had disappeared to the life of an invisible, went the rumours, in grievance of something she loved… Only few had known Lyra as a child. The wise ones pretended they never had, and the stupid forgot.

"Pan!" said Lyra suddenly. "The – the – the mad woman!"

Her eyes were alight with a discovery. Pan raised his pine-marten brow as she leapt up and paced to the window. "The woman… the woman at the markets, in London! You know, when we went before Thomas got up, because you know what he's like about that sort of thing – and we were looking at that fabric, do you remember? And then we saw something really weird – it was, it was, a book about dust, or something? And you told me not to look because… and that woman came up to us, and she was old. You said she was a whatsit, a water lady?"

"A gyptian," supplied Pan.

"Yeah, one of them! And she saw me and she did a sort of… double take! And she saw you and then walked closer and she was crying. Wasn't that funny, Pan? She came nearer and grabbed my hand, remember? And she said… ohh.. what did she say?"

"She asked us about our journey and what we did afterwards. And then she asked us if it was true – did we really open the world of the dead? Did we let all those poor trapped dead people free? Were all the rumours true?"

"I – yeah. That's what she said."

Lyra was quiet for a minute and then she asked softly, "Pan, why aren't you telling me whatever it is you know?"

Pan stared at her blankly from the four-poster. His big black eyes stared into her own, and she already knew the answer, but the feeling of betrayal was blocking out any practical reasoning…

"You have to work it out yourself, Lyra." Pantalaimon didn't say anything for a moment, and then he said, "Lyra, what you feel now… it is nothing…"

His face suddenly showed pain and suffering. Lyra narrowed her eyes. A deeply buried feeling was surfacing, and it was – it was guilt and sorrow and pain, and something else, something worse… her eyes filled with tears and she stared out of the window.

"I wonder if Simon Parslow's initials are still there," she said, for no reason at all.

"Of course they are," Pan said. "They will stay… for years to come."

"I wonder if Billy Costa is still alive," Lyra wondered aloud, as if Pan hadn't said anything. She knew about her childhood from what the Master had told her; and she was beginning to replace descriptions and shady, boring, adult point-of-view stories with real memories that were slowly returning to her. After sleeping, she noticed, she suddenly remembered a lot more than she had done before.

"I wonder if Roger is here," Pan said, and Lyra turned.

"Here?" she asked. "Oh, yeah. He died. Didn't know you were religious, Pan."

Pan made no comment, and Lyra moved nearer and unfolded the clothes. A piece of paper fell from the folds. She picked it up and surveyed it, her eyes glancing over the signature at the end. Strangely, she felt nothing when she saw it.

_Lyra, _

_I have finished the painting. Bartley showed it to the first – fairly – big gallery yesterday and they like it. They are prepared to buy for the price we asked for – well, a little under, but still, the biggest price anybody has any offered. The painting of my mother – the one before she died – the price accepted for that doesn't even come close. And remember, they liked that because 'the feelings you felt at the time came out in your painting.'? Well, Bartley says he is going to try another few and maybe even try some mainstream ones – he says I have nothing to lose. I agree, and if he pulls it off then we will be rich. _

A few lines were crossed out and scribbled over here.

_You shouldn't have left without saying anything. I don't know what that says about us; did you think I would stop you? You should have told me the truth. I still don't understand. Please explain; whatever it is, tell me… I am thinking the worse here. Your note wasn't adequate… why did you just leave? We need to talk. You either need to get the next zeppelin back to London or I get the next zeppelin to Oxford. It's your choice._

_Love, from Thomas._

She couldn't stop herself; she ripped it up. How could he _dare_? He couldn't order her about; nobody could. She was Lyra, and she was not about to obey some stupid man who she didn't even love. He could stuff the painting down the toilet for all she cared.

"You don't want him coming to Oxford," Pan pointed out. He had climbed lightly onto her shoulder as she was reading and had read it from there. He flowed down her arm as she stared at the ripped segments of letter scattering the floor, to stare at her belligerently from the bed. She knew what he meant; she sat down to scrawl a quick letter to him; full of lies, of course, but she couldn't help that.

_Thomas,_

_Things are dull here. I am making slow but steady progress. I plan to ask around town; not much from the master. The old master – who I knew – has died, so nothing from there. Jordan say they can have me for as long as I want but I cannot ask them to house another guest. I cannot return now! There is a girl who may know of where my old best friend Roger lives, or at least where his family live. Please, Thomas – I am finally finding out about my childhood! It is so exciting! But it would only bore you. Stay in London and get the best price you can for that painting. I don't know when I will be home. Hopefully soon. _

_Love, all the way from Oxford, by morning zeppelin. From Lyra. _

_---.-_

Not much happened in that chapter at all... I've recently re-read the Sally Lockhart novels and so, like Philip in those books, I go on about random things that don't need to be described but are rather nice. :)

rooves?


	14. Mary and the Dust

The next chapter of "Mrs. Coulter" is ready but on a laptop which has no internet. It'll probably take me a few weeks to move it onto here 

A lot of this story contradicts other parts. It's because I write the chapters weeks, sometimes months apart, and the general plan keeps changing. I know how to end this story now though – the title won't be completely relevant, but I'll try and include the skulls. : I keep adding little side-plots in chapters that may never be included. Gah!

I picked 'Michel' because of its meaning and where it originated from. (Clue: it's short for Michelangelo)

**Chapter 14**

Lyra found, as she entered the Retiring Room for the second time, that bits of the place were starting to return to her. She had vague recollections of a younger and more obnoxious version of herself wandering in here; and reluctance in the form of Pantalaimon telling her to stop. As soon as she thought about it, she realised that the wardrobe the master had talked about the day before _did _mean something to her. She struggled to remember as the master waited for her patiently. She hid in it apparently, he had told her. Well… she could remember the thrill of being where she shouldn't; the frantic beating of her heart as she stared through the crack… at somebody.

The master was stood at the end of the room, his hands resting on the back of the one chair that was tucked under the ceremonial table. He was in fact heavily relying on the chair in order to stand up, but looking at him, it was extremely difficult to tell.

Pantalaimon, on the floor beside his human, breathed in heavily. He still remembered the smell and the flare of panic when the steward bell rang. The quick scramble to the wardrobe and all at once, flying out of it to roughly knock a glass of Tokay out of a weather-beaten hand. As her daemon registered these memories that the master had already relayed to them, Lyra remembered them and savoured in the satisfaction of remembering something she had been striving for. Her awe and curiosity grew, but at the same time she wished that she could remember some things before the master told her. She'd like to inform him of something he never knew.

"Ah – Lyra! I trust you have recovered from your incident?"

"Yes, I have thank-you. I'm not sure what happened…"

"You were probably just dizzy from the shock of seeing the alethiometer. Collecting your memories back again will be a slow and tiring process, Lyra."

"It completely exhausts me," Lyra admitted, as Pan lithely scurried up a chair and leapt lightly into her arms. She stroked him absently as the master said, "Indeed, that is to be expected; it is a huge mental effort you're making."

There was a short silence as he readjusted his position and Lyra scanned the wardrobe again.

"What were you about to show me?" Lyra asked, after a moment.

"Oh, yes."

He turned and picked something up from the table. It was the same black-velvet package. She felt dizzy seeing it, and pulled out one of the heavy chairs. She retrieved it from him and sat down, her breath caught in her throat as she held the package in her hands. She slowly slipped off the velvet wrapped around the gold and plated glass and her eyes slid expertly over the symbols, the baby and the dolphin, the hourglass and skull and the bee, the thin, delicate needles that swung smoothly, the intricacies of something lovingly and ignorantly crafted. Her fingers brushed the golden knobs and she felt a wave of familiarity.

"I could read this, once." She stated. "It told me things. It told me about bears and murderers."

"Panserbjørne."

"Yes," said Lyra, even though she had no idea what he meant.

Running her fingers over it, Lyra smiled. A feeling came over her when she did – a sort of deep trust, easiness, and a friendliness that was lost in an instant. She looked up at the master and said, "What happened next? After you gave me this?"

The master sat down heavily and his eyes fixed on her. "Mrs. Coulter – Marisa – your mother - knew you had it from the beginning, of course. But she wanted your trust – maybe because you were her daughter, and she loved you. Maybe because you were valuable to her in some way. So she didn't take it immediately. You went to live in London with your mother, leaving behind your particular friend Roger – who was missing before you left, but your mother reassured you he would find out where you went. She promised to take you to the North – a large part of your attraction to her.

"I can only attempt to guess that after a while, you – or Pantalaimon – realized that she had never intended on taking you to the North. You had been in the scruffy, social life of Oxford all of your life and you found this pretty, glamorous London life stifling. Your mother threw a cocktail party and then, or even before the party, you realized her links with the gobblers and ran away. You were chased but the gyptians were in London at that time, and they knew you…"

As he talked, filling the gaps in, Lyra stared at the instrument in her hands. He told her of her connection to the gyptians and Billy Costa; of their resolution to go north and find the children that the mysterious "Gobblers" were abducting. Then he told her about the skill she suddenly acquired whilst within their care; her ability to read the alethiometer and her impassioned requests to go to rescue the children with them. As he continued, she increasingly found herself filling in the gaps he left; stopping in the Fens for the roping, her encounter with the spy flies with Farder Coram, her meeting with Kaisa, Serafina Pekkala's daemon on the sea-boat to the North and always, always the feeling that she was missing something; a large part of the story that was really the whole meaning behind it.

"… And I remember you mentioned going to see the witch consul Dr. Lanselius. He tested you, to see if you could read the alethiometer, except he underestimated your speed and you overheard him saying-"

"Sorry, Master, but… I feel as if there's something you're not mentioning. As if you've forgotten something important. I… something fundamental. Simple."

He paused, and stared at her curiously.

"What do you mean, Lyra?"

"I don't…" Frustrated, Lyra stood up and paced to the ceremonial table, and then back. Her thoughts were snarled and tangled, and she wanted to lie down and try and think it out. She glanced at the grandfather clock near the door. It was barely past lunch-time, but she was tired and she wasn't hungry.

"Could I take a nap before we continue?" she asked, feeling silly.

"Absolutely. Are you having lunch at Jordan?"

She thought for a moment. "Could I have it brought up to my room?" she asked. The master nodded and she paused. "And could I also have the key to the roof, please?"

--

"Mary?"

The receptionist waited for a moment, and then Will heard the faint sound of a voice through the receiver saying, "Yes?"

"We have a, er, Will Parry, here, wanting to be let up. Should I let him through?"

There was an exclamation from the receiver and the receptionist – her name tag identified her as 'Belinda' – replaced the phone. Her daemon was a sparrow and Kirjava was communicating with her quietly.

"She says you can go up," he said, indicating the corridor behind him. "Up to floor four in the lift, her office is first on the right."

Will thanked him and made his way to the elevator, Kirjava slipping through the doors just before they closed. She often communicated with daemons they passed, just because they never talked to anybody else, Will supposed.

The lift stopped at the third floor and a tall, thin woman wearing a white shirt, black pencil skirt and white lab coat entered the lift. She had a few bits of paper in her hands. She flashed him a quick smile and asked, "Are you going up to the Higher Matters lab?"

"Yes," replied Will, nodding discreetly at her small cat-like daemon, who stood on its hind legs and surveyed him levelly before chittering softly to Kirjava.

"Really? We never get visitors," the woman said pleasantly. She leaned forwards to shake his hand as the lift juddered to a stop and the doors opened. "I'm Sally Chessler. I work with Mary – she's my boss but she hates me saying that. Our work isn't often of interest to people - I assume you're going to see Mary?" she asked pleasantly, as they stepped out of the lift.

"Yes," Will replied levelly, "But it's not really a work issue," he said, as Sally knocked on the door on the right and went straight in at the yell of, "Come in!"

"Mary, you have a visitor," Sally said as Will came in behind her. Mary jumped up and embraced Will, saying as she did, "Will! I was _just _about to phone you before Belinda called up and said you were downstairs. I'm so glad you've come; this place is a mess, but here it is: my new lab! I'll tell you about it all later; first…" she stopped, breathless. "You've met Sally then?"

Will nodded and Sally said, "Yes, we met in the lift. Is this a blast from the past, or something, then?"

"Well, er, sort of."

Sally arched her eyebrows. She had a clever face, Will supposed absently. Big blue eyes and a sharp nose. "Sort of?"

"Well – er - we met, er, well-" started Mary haphazardly.

"We met at Mary's old lab," Will cut in smoothly, "I had a friend who wanted to ask some questions about research Mary was doing. We got acquainted from there… it was _interesting_ research."

Sally laughed shortly as Mary smiled her gratitude to Will. "Who would be interesting in what _we're_ researching? Surely you must have been in your teens when Mary was still working with Dark Matter," Sally said, sounding more focused on shuffling through some files on Mary's desk.

Mary shot Will a look and Will said, "Yes, but my friend came from a different part of the world. She knew something about it."

Sally straightened up with a file and looked confused, giving Mary a suspicious look. Mary chose to ignore it and Sally said breezily, "All right then, I'll go and look busy. Have fun…"

As the door shut behind her, Mary visibly relaxed and raised her arms to stretch her lazy joints. Will sat down opposite her on the other side of her desk, noting she hadn't been lying about being about to ring him; her address book lay open to the side, 'Will Parry' written in Mary's looping, untidy scrawl. She sat still and smiled mildly at him. "Is it a social call?"

Will looked away from her inquiring eyes and closed his own briefly.

"I went to the bench last week," he said. "She… she was there."

He could see the surprise in Mary's eyes, and delight.

"She was there? Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw her, sort of… I saw her on the bench, with Pan, I think, I mean, I could have imagined it, but she was definitely there, whether I saw her or not. And I saw her… I saw her with somebody else."

"On the bench?"

"No. In a flat… and I saw a painting. It was of her… I think the man painted it, who she was with. And I went to the museum the other day… this is going to sound crazy…"

Mary scrutinized him. He was being hesitant and his eyes were shining strangely. _He isn't lying_, her daemon Michel told her. She agreed with him mentally.

"Go on…" she encouraged, whilst Will fidgeted. Mary felt uneasy. Will never fidgeted. Will was always sure of himself. He was always right. He always knew what to do.

"Well, there was a special exhibition… some big painting that they were unveiling… and it was painting that I saw in the flat."

Mary couldn't keep the disbelief out of her face. She stared flat-out at him, closing her mouth when her daemon silently told her she was being impolite.

"What… how can that be possible? Are you saying that it's somehow got from their world to ours in… in a few days?"

Will shook his head. "I think it's the same painting… I think it never left Lyra's world."

_He's never talked about her like this_, Michel said to her silently. _He usually hates bringing it up…_

"But it's here now," Mary pointed out.

"Lyra told me once," Will suddenly stated, "That there were some initials near Jordan College that somebody carved into stone when she was younger. And when she came here, into this Oxford, they were still there."

Immediately, Mary felt dizzy. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know. Are you not studying Dust any more?"

"In a fashion. Yes. We are. Sally thinks it's something else. You think that we are Lyra's world, years later?"

"No, not quite. I don't really know, Mary… something isn't right, I mean… we - we never had Jordan College, did we?"

"I'm pretty sure we didn't, no."

Will left this to sink in for a moment.

"Will, I hope you realize…"

"I'm never going to see her again. I know that." Kirjava, prowling the office like it was her own territory, looked up sharply. Michel watched her interestedly. "I'm just… any connection to her… I like knowing she's still there. Here. It's not like I'm hanging on to the past…"

He saw Mary expression. "Well, I am a little. But it isn't unhealthy… I just want to know _why _she doesn't…"

"I know, Will. But is all this thinking about her world and its connections to ours really going to help you?"

Will was silent as he thought this over. He sighed as his mobile phone vibrated from his pocket; pulling it out with a little difficulty, he saw the caller was Lisa.

"Hello? Lisa?"

"Will! Hi! Um, I know you went somewhere a few hours ago, but if you're back for lunch then do you fancy going anywhere?"

Her voice was unnecessarily loud and Will saw Mary raise her eyebrows and give Michel a quick look.

"Sorry, Lisa, I've been called away… I can't make lunch today."

"Oh." She sounded genuinely disappointed.

"But… I'm sure we can do it another day…" Will said, sighing silently.

"That sounds great! When can you make it?"

"I don't know yet. Can – er – can I call you later?"

"Sure! Well, um, have fun. Wherever you are." She hung up and Will replaced his phone, turning his eyes on Mary, who was smiling pointedly.

"Lisa?" she said.

"Yeah. She's nice. She sort of won't let it go."

"It seems like what you need, Will. Tea?" Mary said as she stood up and opened the door adjoining her office to a small staff room. Will followed her through, accepting the offer of tea and waiting as she filled the kettle and said breezily, "You know what Lyra said to you, Will. I'm not sure you're moving on. You could if you tried, Will, you really could."

Will ran his hand through his hair, sighing through his nose. "Look, Mary, will you just come and see it?"

Mary stopped and dropped her hands, holding two teabags, onto the surface. Her shoulders tensed as she sighed and tilted her head back, as if despairing with him. Will wondered if she would believe him about the other thing that had happened at the museum; his strange out-of-body experience where he seemed able to see the dust gathering around him and Kirjava. He wondered lightly whether he'd be able to do it again. Mary still had her back to him, so he closed his eyes and focused.

All he could see was a swimming blackness that seemed to swirl and move. He immediately felt his stomach drop as if he had fallen, and opened his eyes to see Mary turn around and say, "I'll go and see this painting. Maybe we can figure this out together."

"Thanks. Listen, Mary, what is it you do here exactly?"

She seemed surprised at his interest, but said readily, "We don't work with Dark Matter directly. The stuff we do now isn't focused on Dust at all; we discovered by accident that there have been significant changes in the Dust level since we returned from – from Citagazze. I didn't really want to persue it – I have a feeling that we aren't really _meant _to. But Sally gets curious about it sometimes and so we do small experiments; recently she's got more interested in it, so she's probably going to go abroad, because she knows I don't want to research it."

Will nodded slowly. "So you miss what you left – the mulefa, Citagazze, the whole thing?"

"I… I would have liked more time. It was the best time of my life; but we didn't belong there, Will…"

"I know that. I know. I just wondered. Mary…" he wondered how to explain what had happened at the museum to her. "Something else happened. Before I saw the painting. It was to do with Dust… I think…"

Kirjava noted Michel's interest, even if Mary didn't visually react.

"I think I _saw _it. I saw myself just standing there, with my eyes shut, and… Mary? Are you okay?"

Mary had sat up and was staring at him, her eyes round and her mouth open slightly. "Yes, yes," she blustered, "I'm fine! It's just – I think – well. Something like that happened to me when I was staying with the mulefa. They wanted me to try and work out where the Dust was going, and so I climbed a tree and watched the movements, and… well. I fell asleep, sort of, and I couldn't get back to my body… but I could _see _the dust, all around me, and all heading away. Of course, with the knowledge I acquired from Serafina, I know now that it was going out of every window ever made and the chasm the bomb made and all the other rents torn in the fabric of the universe…"

He could see her fingers shaking. "I'm sorry, Will," she said, looking tired and stressed as she tucked her hair behind her ears. "It's hard, keeping this secret, isn't it?"

He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. He felt like a complete outsider sometimes, like he was living in a world of cynics and idiots who couldn't see what was staring them in the face.

"Okay." She said finally. "I'll come and see this painting. Maybe we can talk about things. God knows it's been harder than normal recently. Something has changed, Will. Maybe it's to do with Lyra coming back."


	15. Dust

Sorry this has taken so long. I've no excuse - I got bored. This story is in pieces, it's so messy. I'll sort it out as soon as I can. The storyline doesn't even make that much sense any more! Sorry again, hope somebody actually reads this.. It's been so long. Anyway, in one chapter I mentioned a male visitor but I can't actually remember who was I supposed to be visiting Lyra… so I turned it into somebody else that probably knows the most about her. :-)

*****

The view over Oxford was one she remembered, a vague image that strengthened as she stared out over her home city, her legs crossed as she sat, Pantalaimon next to her, his ears pricked as they regarded the view from the roof.

The master had finished his story up until her ascension to the other world - Cittàgazze

- over the bridge that her father had made. As she tried to absorb everything - her relations with bears, the idea of the huge rent in the universe that her father had made…

"Will," she said suddenly. "You need to tell me about Will. That's what I really want to know."

Pantalaimon paused, and then said, "You'll know all that later. We need to do this properly, and that means starting from the start, and not the end."

The sun was high in the sky, and warm on the top of her head. A slight breeze blew from the direction of the river. She craned her head to catch a glimpse of the barge boats that were moored there, and wondered if any of the gyptians were still there; Ma Costa and her son - she had forgotten his name - and their lord-

"John Faa," Pantalaimon reminded her. "Farder Coram."

"Oh," she said quietly. "Farder Coram. I remember him. I remembered him before, when the Master was talking. We used to read the alethiometer - is that right?"

"Yeah," Pan replied. "At least, you did. He was clever."

"And the witch," she said suddenly. "He knew the witch; the Master said something about the witch councillor-"

"Consul."

"Yeah, Dr. Lanselius wasn't it? And I remember, Pan, he said the witches - he said…" her cheeks flared with the new information that had been buried deep in her brain, and she stopped.

Her daemon watched her, knowing that she was on the brink of something, and knowing the thing that she was missing, the thing that she couldn't remember.

"The witches," she said slowly. She felt annoyed with her slow and cumbersome brain. Why wasn't it telling her, when all the things she wanted to know were already in there? "They… there was a prophecy, there was a thing about me! But I wasn't to know what it was, because then it wouldn't happen, and it was really important. And I…"

She stopped again. It was like writing an essay, and having too many ideas that she wanted to write down. Things were crowding her brain, and she didn't want to stop, because she might forget one of them. She couldn't grasp what it was that the Consul said about her, but she knew it was important, and there was a deep guilt and sorrow that kept surfacing whenever she strained her brain for information.

"What did I do, Pan? Whatever I did, it was really bad, wasn't it?"

He only looked at her, his eyes big and round and yellow. "You're getting too ahead."

"Oh." She looked up again, at the view over Oxford, and felt tears of frustration, because once again her daemon was keeping things from her, and she knew that normal daemons wouldn't do it, because it was almost physically impossible. She knew that the reason for their odd relationship was hidden in her story somewhere, and that she would find out, in the end.

"What's that thing, Pan? The simple thing, that the Master was missing out? Because I remember that being really important, but he didn't seem to know about it at all."

He seemed to be considering whether to tell her not.

Eventually, he said, "Dust. The master wasn't missing it out, it's just that he understands Dust in a different way. We learnt about Dust, and it's important that you understand about it."

"Well, tell me about it then."

He rested his head on his front legs as they both stared into the sky, at the birds that suddenly rose from a nearby spire and fluttered towards them, veering off in a different direction before they reached them. Lyra observed them, noting subconsciously that they were significant, and she should ask about them later.

"_We _first heard of Dust from Lord Asriel, like the Master says. It's what makes things work - like the alethiometer, like how witches can fly, how angels can move between worlds, how bears can see lies and how humans and daemons are connected to each other. We presented the idea that dust represents knowledge and consciousness at St. Sophia's, and that's what's largely believed these days. We didn't know that, when we started out from Jordan, but we learnt it along the way. To lose the dust was to lose consciousness and all life, everywhere - on every world."

"Every world? There's more than two?"

"There's millions. Lord Asriel explained this when we took him the alethiometer, on Svalbard. Come on Lyra, remember."

She found that if he described the scene, she could grasp a concept of the conversation, and by pushing him for details, such as where they were positioned and what the room was like, she could shape a vague memory of the situation. She strained for an idea of the conversation - she remembered suddenly that there was a Bible, and he read out quotes from it, and explained of the Church's idea of Original Sin.

"A burst of energy released when the bond is broken between child and daemon…" she muttered, for her own benefit, "When you flip a coin… that's the idea of parallel worlds…"

She struggled for a moment, lost in her own thoughts. "How many did we visit, Pan?"

"Mostly, we just went to Cittàgazze, and a different world that's more like this one. Except people didn't have visible daemons."

"Didn't have…?"

She sat for a moment in astonished silence, but before she could try and comprehend anything more, she heard the maid calling her, and had to get up to answer her. She was hovering in the doorway that lead to the rooftop.

"Sorry, miss, I don't like heights. Er… there's a visitor to see you downstairs."

"Who is it?" she said quickly, as Pantalaimon padded over to her.

"She says her name is, er -" the woman glanced down at a piece of paper in her hand, where she had written a name - "Serafina Pekkala."

****

"Oh my God."

The painting was still there, and Will couldn't look at it. He avoided his eyes, instead watching Mary's face as she stared up at it. The spotlights trained on the picture had been turned on due to the lengthening shadows outside, and they glinted in the depths of her eyes, and on the black feathers of her daemon, whose big, curious eyes surveyed the painting calmly.

"Will… it's her?"

He didn't want to look. He knew he would only regret it, but his eyes moved, and he was looking at her again. The soft curve of her bare shoulder as she looked at the painter, the shape of her eyes and darkness between her lips, the lights on her face and Pan, curled in her arms, his expression hard to read.

"Will, it's… well. Is there information?"

He had never even thought about that; but there it was, a little golden plaque, with writing. They both read: _A painting by the well-known artist Thomas Lochard. He named it 'The Betrayer'. Little is known about the woman in the photograph but it is largely believed that she was a lover of Lochard who deserted him. Paintings dated after this one are typically darker and the imagery is often violent and dark in nature. Historians believe that Lochard fell into a form of depression in the dates following this painting, even after he sold it for a substantial price in a London gallery. Another possible name for the painting that came from Lochard's own diary writings was 'Liar', although this could possibly be in referral to a number of other paintings. This was by no means the most successful of his work - his last painting, 'The Love Spectre', sold for a notably higher amount abroad. _

Each part of the writing meant something different to Will. Each subtle reference made his heart beat faster, and he knew that Mary saw them too.

"Will…" she said, "This could mean any number of things." She sighed. "But… you do know that none of those possibilities mean…"

He waited for her to finish, but she wouldn't; instead she turned back around to survey the painting. He stood beside her, waiting for the feeling that had filled him to abate. It did, after a few moments. He had clung to that last hope, and now that it had gone, he felt a little lost. Kaisa jumped into his arms and laid her head on his arm.

"I thought," he said, "When she… when she was gone. I thought that I would work forever to find out more about everything… more about Dust, about the knife, just research the whole thing. But I don't think I can."

"You don't need to do any of that. That was needed when we were losing Dust, when we were in danger of losing everything. You don't need to do it, because if your life is focused on that, then it's focused on her."

"But I can't just pretend as if it never happened. That's never going to work. And I can never be with anybody - how could I ever tell them?"

"Don't tell them. Will, you could never tell anybody, who would believe you? That doesn't matter. I'm never going to tell anybody either. You'll have a secret - but you saved everything, and I know you have a nature that won't want to live with this, but…" she struggled to put what she was thinking into words.

"I know," Will said, with a sigh. "But it's just… there'll never be anybody like her."

"Of course not," Mary said. "But there are different ways to love, Will, and she wants you to love. She might have left this - Thomas Lochard - but she moved on, Will, and that's what she wants _you _to do."

They paused, and Mary said slowly, "I know you've been trying your best to get on with it, Will, and I've been happy to help with that. But seeing you reminds me of everything. And you seeing me just reminds _you _of it and that isn't good for either of us."

"I know," Will repeated. "I just… I needed to know."

"It'll take a long time," Mary said. "I still sometimes feel as if everything is pointless."

He nodded, and then Mary said briskly; "I should go. If you ever need anything… you know. Just talk to me. Don't phone, come to the lab." She paused, and they both knew what she meant, so she continued - "Think this over, Will -" she indicated the painting - "And you'll maybe work it out yourself."

She was gone then, and he felt a sense of loss, because he knew that he wouldn't see her again, or at least, for a long time. He watched her go, her daemon firmly planted on her shoulder, and then turned back to the painting. Mary's departure had been quite rapid, and he still needed to sort out his own interpretation of the events, so he decided to get lunch before he went back to work. Somehow, he thought, as he gave the picture a last long look and retreated from the gallery, something monumental had happened: no galaxies had shifted; indeed, no saving of the universe; but something in him had changed, and for the first time in years, for the first time since the time he had spent in the world with the mulefa, he was vaguely content, and it took him a while to get used to the feeling.

****

This all sounds very final. Almost finished! Max three chapters left. :-)


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